There he stands.
Dressed in red and white. He is black and strong. A warrior. He walks, unmarked, through the flame, he beats the drum. Virile. Lover and protector is he. Disguised as a woman, fair skinned, holy, sainted. He lives on.
She is with him.
Hips swaying. She moves. Dancing. Dancing to his drums. Her lips dipped in honey. She is the object of desire. She is sensuality. Mountains move by her grace alone. Dressed in the cloak of a virgin, she is Cuba.
He stands alone at the crossroads.
Always the joker, never the fool. He is old man and little boy. Laughing. Winking. Walking stick in hand, he stands. The doors open and close. He speaks in riddles, but shows the way.
He is balance.
He governs the head. The right thinking mind. Ensconced in robes of white. Unmoved by passion. The water he takes, as clear as his vision. He is pure. He is justice.
And there, over there, is our mother.
Covered in fathoms of blue, she is creation. Gentle. Calm. Predictable. Fierce, unforgiving and violent. She is the giver and taker of life. She commands respect. I give it willingly. Happily.
They sit at the table we have prepared.
Place cards like menus listing their many names. Parts of the whole. Pieces of the puzzle. Aspects of divinity and man. Living, breathing, ancient truths. Gatekeepers of God, the human soul, the universe.
I love them. I have always loved them.