Nothing like
a spiritual orgy.
My soul
already soars
but my metaphysical soles
keep it tethered
to the 3rd planet
from the Sun.
I heard
from an Indian shaman
who said
that the bottom
of our feet
upon striking the dirt
become beams of light
that illuminate
the vagaries
of our earthly treks.
And another Russian shaman
(they exist, you know)
realizing it'd take
too long to travel by foot
made us grow wings
and in the process
of flying
we came too close
to the truth.
This as divulged
by my barber trimming my do
to the latest fad.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem