The Dying Place: A poem for the times we are dying and living in.

When I was in the Amazon rainforest in December with Mundo Común, surrounded by the most marvellous gathering of humans and more-than-humans, there was an afternoon where we were invited to both 'wander' and 'wonder' – to take a solitary walk and simply be with the forest.

That afternoon, I found myself sitting beside the stump of a tree. For over 90 minutes, I rested on my sodden poncho while ants traced paths around my ankles and butterflies skimmed the air nearby. I sat there, listening—truly listening—to what the forest was trying to tell me.

This poem emerged from that moment.

This week, for reasons I’m still untangling, the poem has taken on new meaning. I hadn’t planned to share it yet; it felt as though it belonged to that sacred time in the forest, not to the outside world. But now, it feels like a prophecy, as if the forest was speaking these words for a moment such as this.

So if this resonates with you, please feel free to share it—its words, its meaning, the video, all of it. It is not mine. It belongs to Amazonas, to the forest, to the trees, and to all of us. So if you are as kind as to credit the poem, then please credit La Selva Amazónica y Cuerpo Enjambre (Mundo Común)

Together, let us live yet in the Dying Place.

This poem is dedicated in loving living memory of Manuela del Alma.

The Dying Place

You found me here in this Dying Place
where the light falls low
and sweat drenches my face.
Tears fall from my eyes
here, here, here
in the Dying Place.

A jungle blooms inside me
here, here, here
in the Dying Place.

The vines choke here in this ancient space
where I find grace in the Dying Place.
There is no rage in the Dying Place.
There is no Anthropocene to see
here, here, here
in the Dying Place.

My skin crawls with life
in the Dying Place
as I savour the earth
and lick the clay
and become wild
even if only for today
here, here, here
in the Dying Place.

In the Dying Place
trapped within bodies longing to dance
with the ants and the bees
and the sacred Ceiba trees
I want to dance,
to feel whipped by the wind and free
from loneliness
from my scarcity
materiality
commodity
coloniality
territoriality
productivity
and our fucked-up reality.
Free
oh please let us be free.

Free to be part of this place
the Dying Place.

You found me here
in the Dying Place.
You took my hand
and saw my face
and looked beyond the confinement of skin
and instead
restored a sense of space.
You showed me love
here in the Dying Place.

There is no death in the Dying Place.
We die
but we are living yet.

Life burns intensely
and this is only one part of me
and there is still more to come for us here.
Even if all may feel uncertain
though all may feel so bleak
we still have this place.
We have this now
this us
and we are still here
part of this place.

Life is still to be lived in this place.
Life is still to be lived in this place.
Life is still to be lived
here
in the Dying Place.

Written by La Selva Amazónica y Cuerpo Enjambre

You can find this video on YouTube:

You can download this video for your own use for the next 60 days from my WeTransfer account: https://we.tl/t-w8FJTLxuBB I will update this link in 60 days time should the demand be there - this is a creative common, this is for everyone’s use.