plantmedicine

The Tukano call gahpi-ghori the visions of yagé. The things seen when one drinks yagé.
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I drink the vine, and the veil parts— Gahpi-ghori visions bloom, A shamanic thread unspooling, Flowing through the core of my essence.
First, I face the mirror within, A tangle of shadows, Bad habits like vines choking the light. With closed eyes, I see the truth— Roots of my discontent twisting in the dark.
Then, the jungle calls— A pulse of emerald, A heartbeat older than time. I am swallowed by green, Where every leaf is a whisper, Every tree, a sentinel of life I had once let slip by.
The Earth is but one universe, A drop in the cosmic sea. Yet here, colors breathe, Trees rise like prayers to the sky.
But the city—oh, the city— Its concrete bones stretch upward, Faster and faster, like greed reaching for the heavens.
Rivers silenced, forests felled, The ocean swallowed by steel and smoke.
Yet I see— Every stone, every leaf, every breath— A universe.