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At the foot of the Impossible Mountain,
its seven summits of purple snow,
against a sky of indigo,
muted in a cloud halo;
it fell behind us, the red-orange glow,
where it touched the sea’s edge,
before it fell below.

There we found an ovoid form
buried in dust from Sahara’s storms,
beneath the boughs of a bloated Baobab,
its bark grey, leathered, and worn
like the skin of an ancient elephant
kneeling to mourn.
Covered in sweat, as if recently born.
Beneath the veil of stars from which it was shorn,
this lone meteor, lost, forlorn.

The tree’s gnarled roots held it entombed.
We cut and hacked mercilessly until exhumed,
and carried it away, into the encroaching dark,
into the shadows of the Mountains of the Moon.

We plunged it into the headwaters
of the longest river, red like blood,
running, churning in seasonal flood.
We dove in sputtering, kicking, clinging, 
and felt baptized by the biblical water’s
fertile mud.

Up and down sculpted dunes, this egg we rolled,
burning white sands that baked our souls,
scorched our lips through the kiffeyeh,
wrapped about our heads,
providing an illusion of protection,
We sought cool oases for respite,
but found only dried up holes.

At last we sheltered beneath a bodhi tree
where our spirits were nurtured
as if returned to the womb.
We pondered the nature of the embryo,
then left in the predawn gloom.

We climbed to the Roof of the World
and looked down on what God had wrought,
and humans had neglected in their stewardship,
reduced it all to sold and bought.
We traveled with horse herds,
lived in Yurts, drinking fermented mare’s milk,
where Mongols treated us like family,
knowing the preciousness of life,
witnessing, on the steppes,
how easily it is spilt.

We traveled over the ancient Silk Road
across the forbidding of the frozen tundra,
caravanned over the temporary ice bridge at
Bering’s Strait, and the Borealis,

We brought the egg
through pristine forest,
found its likeness cast in stone,
carved in sacred totem poles.
From what forest were those trees
What quarries those gargantuan
sculptures holed?
Effigies of power imbued with many auras,
embodiment of generations,
venerated bones, ancestral souls.

Across the continental divide
we traveled through the isthmus,
we gaped at the beauty of the Caribbean
sparkling emerald and turquoise blue.
We craned our necks to look on
bustling cities, not yet ruins,
of Maccu Piccu.

We saw curtains of white water
falling across a mountain’s face,
embroidered with rainbows in their mists,
falling feathered, as delicate as lace
falling from as high as heaven,
as beautiful as if Angels-kissed.

At last we came to the Land of Fire
and tossed the embryo into the flame,
it hatched, this celestial creature of light,
this being for which we had no name.

Small of body with all-knowing eyes
this young god we had carried,
and the fire birthed,
looked on us, and at once we knew
there are more mysteries to fathom
for each one that is unearthed.

In our minds its voice was soft and low,
yet it resonated across the archipelago,
sending waves out into the oceans,
and through all the sky its words echoed,
“Live and Love one another unconditionally,
without exception,
that your spirits will evolve
and all things grow.”

M. Zane McClellan

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