(Where are You calling me?
You have come up from the ground for me, this I know.)
In this great horde of tribes, I am looking for mine.
I am not of the dry tribes.
They had their true seers, but they have little in me; neither their logic
Nor their legal brilliance
The zeal, the stony damnations
For a season, I settled there in that sandy city under the silent shawl
My heart understood, but how tired I am now of all the bloodshed
So much blood in the name of God.
I wandered off, looking for the River, and lost the way back, so I kept on.
I traveled with one from a Green Island,
Who sat in the trees delighting in birds and bees
Antlered like an elk,
And he was wise, he showed joy to me
And a heart that my own skipped after.
Music comes from there. Healing also, and histories of the sun.
My memory dances, there.
I traveled as well with one from a New World
All up and down, like a tree in the ground
Spreading, like an Oak, like a Joshua Tree
And he was kind, he showed wonder to me
And pattern that my word could not describe.
Music comes from there. Medicine also, and milk of stars.
My memory rests, there.
The golden moon sometimes slays me
The sky sometimes translates me, with beauty
Or the incense of trees
Of grass
The smell of the forest, her aromatic apothecary
Rising up from the ground
Long before the city and her ruffians,
Merchandise and politics and religion and their unnatural seduction and hell
I was working out the walkabout
By heart, and You were my lover.
These ones in all fervent foolishness
Keep offering You blood
Blood of their enemies
Like some kind of propitiation
Blood also of land and sea
Until all becomes dry dry dry
Here now, one grows more kind
Another, more bloody.
The ground waits for all.
You came up from the ground for me
I will follow thee.
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