There is no road map for this terrain, no compass that could offer up a clue. You attempt

it with your leather bound books, the oral traditions that became the foundation of our

demise. And if The Book had never been written we would have held hands

and helped each other through the dark. Rising together out of the water, baptized

by the Sun, anointed by the Moon, eternally blessed by the wind

produced by stars. Tall grass to cradle, dust from the Earth reveals

to us the tracks of a tear and the crease lines of a smile. Finding

our way in the tinkle of bells and the brashness of the gong, the meal of grain

ground and turned to paste, baked in clay beneath the coals. The communion

of a shared fire, the echo of love down through ages. Pathfinding through the reedy banks

boulders strewn like marbles tossed by giants, the honey colored wheat

in the fields and the reeling spectacle that is the Sky. Clouds rush and point

the way around and around, the journey etches the indelible blueprint

in one unbroken line upon the hungry skin of your soul.