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Pelos olhos de um xamã

by Jorja Box 2 years ago in fantasy

Through the eyes of a Shaman

Electric seas posses my irises. Raven windows bind light to mind, indulging signals from verdant dewy surroundings. Engulfed by verdure. Vines carrying leaflets scale mother natures necks. Lush foliage rest like clouds above. Mossy rhyolite beneath my bare feet. Statues weave their roots through the soil. Waves travel through the humidity to my eardrums- soft pattering of rain on all that is near. Tears trickle down the spines of the statues feathers. The Screaming Piha’s cry. My soul and body glide through the lush city of twisting emerald candles. I exist in a web, a matrix of spirit energy that connects and unites all life.

My body slides gracefully into a hymenaea trunk basin. Swaying side to side, water gently leaps at my fleshy branches. I stroke the jaws of the uncoiled snake with my oar, and float down the stretching vertebrae of the reptile.

I reach a buoyant village and sense spirits competing. Chestnut twigs stretch toward me, begging for my wisdom. Skeletons disguised as skin and bones roam the impending graveyard. A malnutrition crisis. My body verges toward the chiefs palace of mud and straw. Guarded by elegant and proud standing figures, they let me linger through a door of dried snakeskin. Angelic women are lazily scattered on carpets crafted from the hair of the dissentient deceased.

The dictator rests high in his throne. A fairly pudgy man, radiating greed from his soul. The palace in its superior self symbolises greed. The base of his throne is compiled of human bones. His maple neck is decorated with teeth. Teeth harvested from the skulls of his defeated. Ravishing materials hug his waist.

Above him hangs a Harpia harpyja, representing eagerness and prowess. A flaw. As I approach this man, his fingers tap the arms of his throne- an act of unrighteous. I bow in respect. My shadow over towers his completeness as I stand. I dive deep into his evil eyes. My brawny spheres brew tempest of dissatisfaction as I read through the lines of his fractured and corrupted mind.

“Oh wise one, what do you seek? How marvellous is this floating hamlet of mine?”. I don’t utter a word. “Shall I guide you through this creation?” the chief expresses with a grin. “Yes, I must see”.

The elegant figures lead our crowd. As they march, the chief and I follow. Each pounding step shakes the unsound frames we walk upon. We halt. The chiefs eagle is chained to his arm and rests on his shoulder. A draining wail escapes the bird’s sorrowful beak. The eagle tries to take flight, but his wings are clipped: a symbol of dominance. Surrounding our herd are bodies devouring themselves. Each unfolding corpse beholds the eyes of a dead man. A man who suffered incredibly. Not a muscle is evident in these creatures as their bodies are crematoriums full of shattering bones. Hardly a nerve pumps their starved blood. I cannot believe how these destroyed souls are still living. Their mouth a boneyard of teeth broken from biting down on themselves. The hollow auditorium of their chest will no longer swoon with echoes of a heartbeat. They will be forgotten fossils of a skeleton sunken city.

The chief nods at the leading figures, and we continue to stroll, cloaking darkness. We cross a tainted bridge which stretches over a pool of leaping serpents. The ground is scorched, and smouldering vapours rise. Children carry baskets full to the brim of fruit and water. Enslaved to serve the hierarchy- the children, mothers, fathers and other associates starve. As the little ones dragged their filthy feet through the poisoned soil, their mothers weep. Mother nature’s necks pour tears of sap to feed her children, as that is all she can supply- before they rest eternally inside of her. I crouch down to a man who rests against a tree.

“My friend, what has led to this abhorrence?” “Goodness shrewd one, these monsters have captured our souls. They harvest our bodies to build their bridges. They yield our fields to fill their stomachs. All for the satisfaction of their greed and to mask their deepest insecurities and fears”. I present my deepest sympathies to the man and rise toward the chief. The figures arch their spears towards the man. “Hold back men. That is not necessary while we have a guest”.

“We must talk, old chief. Follow me” I speak.

I lead the group into the rainforest. We travel sweaty hours. The many trees around hold the sound of the pounding water in the distance. A dewy cloud approaches us, and the pounding becomes intensely loud. We step out of the canopy’s coverage out into the openness. our eyes imprison the sublime view. Falling from the heavens- a white river, hugged by the cheeks of a rocky face. Pearly whites turn to blood, as the heavens discern the impure souls I bring forward. We gather around the bloody bowl and I advise the men to emerge their bodies into the ruby water. Ye must be born again. Hesitant, the chief commands one of his men into the base of the waterfall. The rest of the men follow, then the chief. Blood turns to a black bubbling concoction- men’s screams echo as stretching hands rise from ink. The mist separates to form skull contours- they dance above the baptism.

Ink supersaturates to form ebony bonds yet again. The water is pure. Rims charcoaled with dead skin. Rising like white sea snakes- the men blind me with their awakening. Eyes which behold flourishing oaky forests. Palms ready to give. Their souls had been cleansed. The chief strides from the water, glowing, he holds my hands and kisses them with his rainy lips.

A caravan of corpses- lifted through the rainforest, headed towards the sacred falls. Each body is dipped into the holy waters, and souls are regenerated.

“I have been enlightened. My mind was surrounded by Nicandra physalodes walls, which blossomed insecurity. The lavender s of the flowers masked any form of hope for a successful chief. Your bones were harvested to illuminate my power. My stomach but blubber to resemble my avarice. Your families suffered for the sake of my own subconsciousness. Soul-destroying mental conflict and clashes of will power is what you famished peoples have experienced. Not until my mind is as wide as the snake we perch our lives on, did I realise the misery and selfishness I brought. I surrender my soul to the sea, as our river surrenders her tail to the sea. Our structures shall re-evolve- we will blossom like the passionfruit flowers which fence our homes. Ceiba Pentandra will braid her pinkness along towering arms. I see the light- my deepest insecurities now live in the past, I am fearless. I am the Harpia harpyja”.


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Jorja Box

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