plantmedicine

in the dawn’s quiet breath, the taita wakes, a child of the jungle, born to the song. he walks with his grandfather, hands calloused, hearts soft— they find her, the yagé, her roots deep, her spirit waiting.
a vine of veins, thick as prophecy, she weaves through emerald cathedrals, her serpentine body, bronzed by whispers, threads through the damp breath of the earth.
her leaves, opposites in perfect balance, elliptical mirrors of creation’s eye, petioles hold the pulse of the jungle, each blade a sigil, each vein a hymn.
her flowers—small, secretive embers— blush in shades of earth and dusk, brown as river silt, pink as dawn's pulse, red as the soft flame of a serpent’s tongue.
she unfurls along riverbanks, where water wears the skin of silver serpents, and the jungle hums with a language of mist.
the cut is a prayer, sharp yet tender, her stem yields, a gift, a promise. stones become the drum, the crusher, the guide, and the vine surrenders, fibrous & raw.