Out in the high streaks of the jungles dawn
High moon draping its kind face on thy horizon
Through the winding paths of the dark wood
There is found the oblivion of the never ending night
And yet there is also the cup of life
On the Mayan temple
Amid the piles of thine crushed Spanish swords
There abides by these shattered metals
Deep flowers in the mist
As the mystic glass of memory strings our hearts together
Liberation is to fear neither life nor death
As both fears can be in the spirit of terror
But in the new image of the heart
I renounce them both
And therein live truly
By the paths to life and death
As each are intertwined
By the flower, the night, the temple, and the sword.
(Flower, Night, Temple, and Sword. By EB)