I dreamt of a people,
They said they had no need of a name.
They came to tell me of the mountain,
The mother of all,
The goddess of the land.
She rose up to hold back the sea,
She cleaves the wind, and sends it swirling over and through the valleys.
The clouds are called to her, bringing the offerings of all life.
They pointed,
up the familiar face of that mountain that lives in my heart,
And told me the tears of all life are carried to the mother,
They are their prayers, giving thanks for life in joy and in sorrow,
They fall on her face and cling,
They freeze, compress, shift and crack.
They hold close to her,
soothing the immense fire of creation burning deep within her.
Over time the tears roll slowly down her face,
Like a river, but also not.
They flow, but also shatter,
They bubble and crack.
The weight of forests reluctantly tumbling back down to the valley.
This is how it has always been.
But this is a warning.
This nameless people is gone,
Their lands and their lives burned away.
But their prayers still lay on mother mountain.
And as we continue to burn this land,
Generations of prayers will be released from their endless cycle returning to their mother,
They will no longer creak, and crumble their way down.
They will be a torrent,
We will feel their rage if we take them from the mother,
They will wash us away with them,
And it will be right.
What is that tiny buffalo? 