Ode to a Vølva's longing

Sitting forlorn at the desk of her youth
Vigga the Vølva was contemplating
how in a coronavirus time
she was going to survive mentally
without her beloved forrest hut.

Her cloven diaspora from somewhere else
was getting to her vividly
not because she was in a bad spot
but she had promised innards
at one point in time to live elsewhere -
bred and born her family's ties
were strong - yet her sense of self
had turned into a primal screaming essence
without any help - without seeing
the petite paradise  any time soon
was enough to strangle her emotionally
and getting her blood pressure way up
to its maximum thereby endangering
herself to never see the visual symbol
of her freedom and her self-preservation.
Alas, she must try and figure a way
to sneak over to her "room of her own".
Arcadia was for her the people
the connections to the little foot path
of history mingled with grapes
of vines and olive trees - almond blossoms
in spring - on summer's nights
the cicadas whirling wings - the swifts
and the bats outside her window
gobbling up the mosquitos by the million
her dreamy view of a steep hill
reminding her that she was just a dot
and nothing else - but a speck
can have its own place in the humdrum
it was not about anyone's judgement
just her own deep conviction
that for some reason she should be
there and not here - it was her mother's
comment when she, the Vølva,
was of an age of late childhood
the you - (and everyone else) are alone
always - no explanation followed .
Of those words came over the years
that  - yes - we are all alone together
but in a small community with
various and sundry souls around
it is easier to take instead of being buried
in suburbia with pristine lawns
in air conditioned rooms in boxes
of people who are either too scared
or too snobby to talk to/with each other
thinking that life is gyms/parks to
drive to - and heaven forbid you should
walk to the mall, only a car would do.
The middle ages and ancient towns
are sturdy - mired in history
the Vølva feels that she is part
of a whole of a line - a blimp
or a grain of salt - a caretaker
of a little hut in a village - only
for an instant - it belongs to her
in her solitude among Visigoths
and Occitans - back to Romans
and even the Greeks - ancient minds
a  cornucopia of different lives
gathered in a small speck of place
and yes there is loneliness  too -
but in a beautiful environment
vitally tolerable - and sexually
stimulating - with the wine
good food and good moods
the "aloneliness" is in the mind
albeit invariably seen as non-existent
or at least it becomes hidden
Vigga the Vølva moped and the muse
left her barren once more
she had her say - for the time being
acknowledging the loss of heyday
away from her dream time
elsewhere - grateful that she still
could claim her dreams of life
and once you take a mirage away
then she knew that dear death
would not be far behind.