There is a place.
It lies outside of space and time as we know it,
but many of us have been there. Some visit it often.
It lies in that cultural mid-space so distant yet ever palpable.
Hive mind. Race memory. Blood bond.
We may call it many things, but we know it best when we see it,
and it feels warm and familiar...as if a memory we once lived.
Perhaps we did, is it not?
For a countless times before have you been here
and a countless times I.
You there, in one incarnation you were a master of mantra.
You wrapped meaning into syllable and metre.
And you? A pioneer of tilled grain you were.
Your hard, seasoned hands fed a civilization.
Another among us was quite a daredevil,
boldly he grabbed that ancient, wild bull by the horns
the first to do so.
And yet another was there,
trekking beside the primal cheftains
as Bhārata emerged from the caves and spread through the lands.