...and he found an old map of the Amapa :
9-foot granite blocks, in a jagged circle,
measuring the winter solstice. Oro
Pendula wove aviaries overhead.
Daring souls drag freedom by the arms,
prong fandangos on the knife of the abyss.
Let prudent beards go mumble otherwheres -
these follow out their hunches, finger charms,
face down their fear. So Fawcett plunged
into the Amazon. Lost Civilizations
inaccessible, as usual - ruins
cached behind a mental door (unhinged
maybe). There were two mappemundes :
the paper chart (a tactic of the hunt)
and then that bosky planetarium (bent
above pellucid cranium) that fronds
its stars across a secret sky. Of what
be the substance of celestial cascades?
Which treasury (purled deep in Hades)
lured these earthy spirits from the plot
of placid precincts? Archaeology
of buon governo? Blind vainglory,
gildered dust? A just-plausible story
to relate, if they return (all Argo-eyed)?
On and on (into an onion of hermetic
union) go the seekers. Ominous hours
ravel their desires... garlands, lairs
of labyrinth (cthonic Parthenon).