Stream of Consciousness
An annual pilgrimage back to the Mother
Back to family and the sacred land
A place where freedom and individuality is at its purest
A place called Home.
A primal invocation
Awakening something deep inside my soul
Something I’ve never felt before
It still lingers there, like a warm fuzzy blanket
I hope it never leaves.
Sitting in the warm womb of the Mother
The smell of sage and bear-root
Listening to the rocks whisper
While my prayers are given to the grandfathers
In sacrifice.
Walls are closing in
The feel of the concrete jungle rushing around me
Listening to the wind whisper
Telling me the Mother is still there
A forlorn sense of sadness
I wish I were back in that place
Among the trees and spirits
Where my soul lives free.
Back to family and the sacred land
A place where freedom and individuality is at its purest
A place called Home.
A primal invocation
Awakening something deep inside my soul
Something I’ve never felt before
It still lingers there, like a warm fuzzy blanket
I hope it never leaves.
Sitting in the warm womb of the Mother
The smell of sage and bear-root
Listening to the rocks whisper
While my prayers are given to the grandfathers
In sacrifice.
Walls are closing in
The feel of the concrete jungle rushing around me
Listening to the wind whisper
Telling me the Mother is still there
A forlorn sense of sadness
I wish I were back in that place
Among the trees and spirits
Where my soul lives free.