The influence of the sirens’ song is long since past.
Women dressed in yellow petals,
bosoms like islands,
bare feet planted firmly in the red sky.
The air smells of sweat and green fronds fanning.
Women sing and ring bells,
the secret places wide open.
Where are the sailors weak from hunger?
They wish for beds hidden in the trees.
There is a peacock goddess subsuming my present.
She strokes me with cobalt blue and magenta.
The deep red sex of woman screams with hunger.
A royal bird gives me the plumes of her mate.
She wraps me in a robe of eyes so that I may see
My here, my now, my forest for the trees.
In the forest of birdsong one sings the colors of the world.
Fire on her head does not consume the jelly brain.
Some wear a mask and hint of warfare.
We are all comandantes here.
Our future listens to the language of birds,
hand held out in peace. A battle lurks.
Dress me in every color and I will make war in the name of freedom.
Blood turns to ocean,
bones to trees.
El Paso, Texas
May 16, 2009
We, the co-editors, contributors, and advisers, have started the Mago Web (Cross-cultural Goddess Web) to rekindle old Gynocentric Unity in our time. Now YOU can help us raise this torch high to the Primordial Mountain Home (Our Mother Earth Herself) wherein everyone is embraced in WE. There are many ways to support Return to Mago. You may donate to us. No amount is too small for us. For your time and skill, please email Helen Hwang (firstname.lastname@example.org). Please take an action today and we need that! Thank YOU in Goddesshood of all beings!
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