Equatorial sun beats merciless upon the verdant floodplain,
Slowly drawing lifeblood through root and branch
To skyward transpiration in molecular ascension.

Then heavens groan, their accumulated load unbearable and Xango's hammer drops,
Unleashing floods of tears in terrifying torrents.

But all's not lost,
And in the storm's chaotic mechanism some elevated Moisture is borne upon the trades,
Riding high and far above the waves til landfall on Atlantic's Northern shore.

Again it's driven upwards,
Not by fiery tropics' sun but by the land itself,
Embracing Eryri's crest and swathing ancient peaks in grey ethereal garlands.

But clouds,
Like starcrossed lovers,
Find letting go such sorrow
After life's time spent only barely holding on.

Then go to ground in mists and drizzles,
Rolling softly down to feed the hungry crops,
Its drips reluctantly released and seeking out the dark
And deep recesses in which to hide,
To rest and then recover after such a fall from grace.

And percolate through ancient lime and time,
And run a secret course through cuprous lodes and long forgotten workings,
Condense alternate charges before resurging upward back onto mortal plane,
Dispensing saintly blessings and imparting grace and gratitude in cold forgiving flow.

Reich called it 'orgone' - and was jailed for his 'madness', his books all burned.
The stuff of dreams and nightmares, it breathed life into the A bomb,
Its Pará-physique properties unlike other waters of this world.

Yet still they come to bathe and seek its numinous glory - But first you must believe.