Mayan Cave, The Yucatan Poem by James Andrews

The day had been hot.
The buses on the main route
Spinning out comet tails of dust,

The workman leaned on a hard clay wall,
Rested his back on the edge of a half dug trench
And wiped his forehead.
It seemed the digging had never begun
And could never possibly end.
Every day was like this.
There was only digging.

Suddenly, as if a grip had loosened,
The wall gave way.
The workman fell backward
Blind and blinking in the dark.
Slowly his sun seared eyes gave way to wonder,

In the dim lit shadows, vases and small figures,
A plain of talismans.
Bones, amulets, the toys of children,
Spread as far as the workman's eyes could see.

Then, a slow dripping, a flowing in the shadows,
A river stretching further than the center of the earth,
Where no human eye has seen,
The ceiling of the cave reflected in its calm water
Its mirror held up to quiet stars.

The river had no source.
It had no end.
It doesn't to this day.

Instead, it beguiles the traveler
And forces questions in the minds
Of dusty tourists and thirsty arrivistes
Who do not know that they are thinking them.

What is origin and what is destination
And are they different?

The workman thanked God for momentary shade
And attacked the trench once more.

The bright, clear water stretched away
To the dark unknown.