Now at last the rains have come!
We hear and feel the thrum
from our under-sand abode,
and we emerge, horns quivering,
glorying in the sublime wetness,
the pouring down of Love,
the blessing, the manna
from above.
Time to celebrate,
time for a bacchanal!
For we who have so long abstained,
even decomposing plants
are an imposing meal,
and the hundreds of eggs,
born of our transcendent couplings,
must become the geniuses and saints
of our species.
When the clouds clear, we know
our party's end is near.
Nibbling the plants we've learned
will extend our ecstasy,
we rejoice in the revelry,
ascending to the singing stars,
the moon's radiant face.
Come morning, we are back in place,
hunkered down underground
and moving into the long sleep,
cocooned in the womb of darkness,
safe from the relentless sun.
We, the sacred snails,
are the rainmakers
of the desert.
To you, our sleeping life
may seem a living death,
but our dreams of blessed water
go forth into the Field
from which all emerges,
seeding the clouds
with our visions,
birthing into righteous rain
for all flowing, growing things.
Awake or asleep, we live our dreams.
Death? We do not fear it,
we know that we live on in Love,
born again of water and the spirit.
