My voice is profane in this cavern with soaring abutments, adorned with the creatures whose bodies created the hills and streams, who fed their descendants, wedded the land to the sacred. How would I understand this place if the beacons and shelters I come from had never existed? The ochre and lime on these walls were crucial, though left alone perhaps for years at a stretch, enduring until the guardians came to see, to remember eternity, to replenish their equilibrium. My mind’s eye conjures a poor imitation of those who found nourishment here— alone, but embraced by vastness, their every tread reverent, assured. But the radiant stillness casts me adrift, reminds me of my unknowing of time, my intrusion on ageless terrain.
From: Vol.09 N.01 – A Poetics of Rights
by Glen Hunting