They search for truth in the eyes of oblivion.

They wonder but offer truce with the darkness of the elements.

They gaze into the light, while not blindly following.

They trust intuition and not institutionalised by constitutions.

Brave are those who are rooted and not looted.

They stumble upon crossroads where crucifixions are myths.

They form a golden age from the old teachings.

They look to the stars far beyond their own reflection.

The mood of the moon cycles in a Mother’s womb.

The sun rises on her Father’s tomb.

Healing, exhaling, inflating and relaxation is what they do, when they burn incense.

Ancestors chant songs of wisdom.

“Trust in the herbs, my son” they whisper.

They walk bare feet on the earth, while the ground nourishes the soul.

The wind blows on the autumn seed, and the sun energises their bronze skin.

Spirits in the wilderness bewilder and metamorphoses into beings, only fathomed through eyes that see the soul.

They reach a fountain of water that nourishes the soul.

The evil trickster poisons the river but the wise of the beyond know that the soul is eternal.

Wise words found is these verses wither through storms and construct norms that change through time.