The drums pound their beckoning, and the body is held hostage by the rythm of the beat. Treading onward, they ignore nature's hostile fingers, And limbs surrender to sharp, slappy branches. Halfway up, scratching and stinging, tender flesh harbors tiny pools of standing blood, and skin is itching now from the hard fought duals with nature. Unaware of pain and hot with fever, they continue on their pilgrimage upward to the other side midnight. Finally, at the top, they stop and stare.
Spirits fly from cages free at last.
Fire stones flung from old Shamans agitate the blackened sky. And the earth, shining with perspiration, drops her fluid on naked thighs. The soul's music cries out. No mortal could reach such notes. All night the spirits come and go, called by the wind, released by the fire.