There is still Love, child of Mars

"I still have the bruises and all the cuts. It's what I show for all the years."

"Why did you call me?"

"I wanted to see you."

"Why? To whine about how life's been unfair to you?"

"Um, no. No. I just wanted, no, needed to see you."

"Why?"

"I miss you"

"You told me to leave, said I was no good for you, that I made you weak"

"I know. I want you back, and I'm sorry. I was in pain"

"Everyone feels pain, even me"

"I know, but this was different"

"You're not the first nor will you be the last, but it's always different"

"I don't care, it was me this time"

"You're strange"

"I get that a lot"

"You're not ready"

"What do you mean? I'm ready now! Please. Come back to me."

"The ides of March are come and gone
July bleeds into crimson rivers
Orpheus' song lingers even in stone
A tale once told to the weavers

Yours is an empty house
Big and empty. Empty heart
Go west or east, north or south
empty house, empty man

Listen, the child sings
Ave, ave, ave Maria
But she is gone, on angels' wings
In her father's house, singing "Doe a deer"

I held the book, at the turn of time
In my blood I wrote your name
Hear! The midnight bells chime
Away I must, for it's all a game

Laugh, sing, dance and cry
No longer Son and never Father, but name you must have
"Rae", the grass will grow and the birds will fly
The heart will call, and I will come"

She got up, graceful as a reed in a gentle breeze. Kissed me on the cheek and whispered,

"When you're ready, I will come to you"

I turned to look at her, one last time, but she was gone. I walked to the bar and paid my bill.

"You are a Mars child" Destiny asked or said, I couldn't quite tell the difference, there was always that about him.

"Mars, Athena, Aphrodite, Yahweh, the lot of them, I belong to all or most of them anyway"

"Hmmm, she sure likes the dreamers" He said to himself, mostly. He pulled out two small glasses from a wooden cabinet, the kind you filled with colourful liquids and then poured down your throat in one quick motion. One glass, one swing. He bent down and rummaged through the cabinet for what seemed like ages.

"Aaah, here we are. I've not had some of this in a million years." He said, straightening once again. He had that look; I could tell he really meant it, a million years. He produced a dusty, ancient looking bottle, much like a Babylonian clay jar but different, uncorked it, poured a honey coloured liquid into the glasses, and handed one to me. A strange aroma hit me, something like tears, the good kind, the kind that flow when you laugh so hard. Years too, it smelled of them, one piled upon the other until there were hundreds and thousands of millions of them.

"Everyone walks through the garden, even my sister. The end is the same but the path is yours to choose, sometimes."

I put the glass to my mouth, tilted my head back and poured.