Drawn blindly to life's fountain head,
Within the canyon walls, I tarry,
Their awesome inward press, ahead.
The cool dark silken smooth embrace
Of cleft high cliffs that over tower
Conceals from chance this shrine's pure grace,
Yet guides the chosen to its bower.
The moist warm air thrills, rich with scent.
Intoxication swift beclouds the mind,
Of any who would risk ascent
And hope the deep veiled grove to find.
Here tangled jungle find, dense-grown,
Around the sacred path whose way
By one lone priestess only known,
An occult mystery, 'til this day.
Prostrating at the ritual mount
Upon its niche, my lips to lay.
This rite of passage to the fount
Where ever ecstatic ripples play.
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