Hinúñe,
we back track to earlier incarnations, no more than dew,
no less than orbiting ponds,
pink cocoons, and blooms
on tight braided vines.
We are countless revivals
in the Great Mystery.

Hinúñe
do not blink,
lest a particle of anything
is missed,
floating moss,
algae gracing foamy tides,
subtle disintegrations,
reintegration.
Do not flinch
at selflessness
flowing toward
bottomless seas.
It's not
the same departure
of self
triggered by social tyranny.
One is muted,
the other screams.
Observe everything.

Hinúñe,
our intent now
is truth.
We are wandering
nomads
hunting afar much too long,
seeking sanctuary
that exists
only in one place.
(We didn't know sooner,
at earliest consciousness,
to brush at its fog,
for flesh and blood
details to arise.
Instead,
rescuing horses materialized.
Or, perhaps,
truly it was not that
we didn't know
our predicament immediately.
We might have backed off
from an immensity there.)
We started out feeling
there was no choice
but to go forth alone.
though some people say,
eyebrows arched,
"We always choose."
Transition is the root
of everything.