A void of grating scales,
seeps electrifying purple fumes.
Tiamat’s crimson blood drips Iike jewels of Gaia.
The sound, all that is, the sound – rushing, echoing like stars both born and dead.
She has many names in many tribes and many cultures, she is One and yet she is within all. In Australian Indigenous tribes she is Kuturu, heart, spirit of the Earth. In Incan mythology, Pachamama. In Northern Native American cultures, Maka Ina, Mother Earth. Her blades of grass seek the Sun’s warmth through narrow cracks in the cold hard world of concrete. Her tiny birds sing their sweet songs in the filthy gutters and gloomy alleys of elegant society. She flowers, she blooms, she flows, she grows, her vines entwined beneath spreading piles of stinking rubble and polluted chemical skies.Read More