Misplaced

One day I might have misplaced my memories,
lost in an unnamed town,
in a forgotten countryside.

You'd find me in the fields,
thatching rotted rooves,
or sweating under the engine
of a beaten-up buggy
from a by-gone war era.


Perhaps I would be lying in the shade
when you passed by on your motorbike,
on your own adventure,
and you'd say,
"Is it really you?"

Then we'd share some wine and watch the sunset.

Eventually my memories would return.
Torn between two lives I'd come home
to join the fight for bigger and better things.

But I'd always wonder
if revolution really is more important
than first year's harvest.