A soul in exile

I don’t know by what cruel design
I was thrust into this age
When my heart yearns for a place unknown
And my memories defy the present.
It is not a mere whim or faint desire
That keeps me from feeling a part
Of this maddening machine called now
Or the insanity of people in motion.
I know I was made for a better time
And a yearning calls from my genes
To return to the mountain encampment
Where women grind acorns into flour
And hum an ancient hymn of gratitude.

I know from an instinct I cannot explain
That everything has a spirit
And I hear ancient wisdom in echoes and thunder
And the music of winds in tall grasses.
I know the luxury of chattering brooks
As I bathe beneath the abundant sun
And I relish in the scent of buffalo hides
Made warm by teepee fires.
I yet hear the laughter of sun-bronzed children
Never needing to be taught of freedom
And the messages bring the hollow yearning again
To the soul in exile that somehow resides
Beyond the orbits and calendars of its rightful home