I bring you gently to my lips,
and breathe life into you, gently.
My winds making your totem moan,
our spirit echoes in rich tones.

Deep vibrations, symbiotic,
the language of the Earth’s spirit.
Sigh throaty, fundamental hum,
chant to rattles and dance to drums.

The veil between becomes thin,
the Mother, ancestors appear,
no distinction, waking or dream,
but one reality it seems.

As I gaze beyond the mesa,
the scene of the crime, as it were,
my flute and I, sorrowful notes,
the cultural dirge this denotes.

M. Zane McClellan

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