Updated by Arutam Ruymán, September 2023.
The voice of Arutam is steadily revealing everywhere in the jungle. Day and night His whisper slips through logs, leaves, breezes, feathers and furs. Its tone only changes itself to render allegiance to heavens and, at the same time, it enjoys His sacred presence. Even though the whole thing is the last truth revealed in howling songs, the shadow holds our attention until a day when, completely confused, we ask ourselves who we are. Between lights of gold and silver, time fades as we get distracted by longings we never needed.
Your voice, sings every single thing. Void of an environment that distracts man from his Spirit, and immersed in an inner silence where thought finds no place and time. There's no way to draw a memory that could drink the glow of Life and, still, endure in pain. I breathe that world felt by Tobacco, so clearly, as it soaks my hand. Short of air, in His shivering depth, Arutam screams from my bone marrow, from the heart that shakes mountains, skies and earth.
Your song endures in the blissful eternity that intoned it. Even though it is always in a unique way, He loves and enchants himself, enduring in the mysterious strokes that draw the jungle: its leaves, branches and inexhaustible silver whistles; on the skin of the anaconda, who trembles and makes the earth mumble. A murmur that lulls the waters of the black lagoon, breathes among feathers, and stalks through the owl and through that memory that the Uwishin keeps for their kin.
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One day, many years ago, I realized that my mind wandered in thoughts. There was a dramatically dark creation that yearned to exist and to define its reality while naturally fading. That agony, which barked like a wounded and hungry dog, made so much noise that it occupied a space in a captured time. Confused in fear and awe, life just went on, delivered to a dark trend that talked too much, among reasons, pride, apologies and wailing.
I will look upon my fellow men with my heart. That which allows me to feel without pressing my feeling in a hurtful way. Today I know that there is no pain to bear, nor joy that will last to forget how I was born. The heart that looks in my shearwater eyes, enjoys its flight in the skies and the lullaby of the calm sea. That kind of serenity watches my peers and finds, again, the attention of the same shining crystal.
There is no corner, where the memory of this living horizon lies, for me to leave alone. I know that a present of thought needs a place and time to believe and explain itself. And I know that there is no greater pain than to forget and lose that caress of bliss that gave birth to us from the radiant depths of eternity. No more dark corners, I won’t be invited by the smiling shadow that bent and stole my family to place them at their service, leaving some human remains to produce their next prey, the one that would be wounded slowly, so that, in the end, it would groan in a last version of slow decay.
Whispers of stinking air describe life as a nonsense that asks to be solved in a violent and unique way, with the sharp and mechanical precision of a spider that has drowned in its own sick breath. A contagious stench that disrupts the harmony of Arutam's feeling, in those beings who have become fragile through their wounds. Beings that wobble when they are relocated in dungeons with no single path, beings that in no way understand what happens. Everywhere you can hear the ominous poetry reciting how eternity has left us abandoned in its own negligence.
Those teeth made of shadow, neither bright nor sharp, but hollow and wormy; They are willing to bite whoever gives their innocent confidence. I will protect my people, the little ones and those through whom Life is still capable of exercising its will. I will sing the secret of the white morning light, discovered through the blue, red, yellow and emerald whisper of the toucan's feathers. I will do it with the feeling of my grandparents, in ceremony, taking Natem (ayahuasca), crowning the awakening of the anaconda with the golden light of Tobacco. And shedding the most beautiful drops of an ecstasy that returns, in eternal awakening, and that screams through our children.
The chilling embrace of the Anaconda shakes the earth and disfigures the morbid hug of the shadow. I breathe the ashes of old rotten leaves, whose stench is still smoking, in my old age, in a damp mud that slows us down. These days the light of the Spirit is still cloudy, and confusion is a slow torture that causes the most dedicated and profound damage.
Twinkling heart of the stars, you cry in the crystal notes of my "Tumank", you reveal the rainbow in the heavens mirrors. And I know, it's just a tear of Tobacco on your wet skin: "Kintia Panki".
