Voodoo Master
It was late afternoon
in the red dust of Benin.
The spirits were awake.
And the world grew thin.
An old man called me.
His eyes were storms.
His voice was a door.
He handed me a mask.
Carved from ancient wood.
Soaked in elephant blood.
A key.
A vessel.
A forgotten science.
“Tonight,”
he whispered,
“We go to Sirius.”
Darkness fell.
We wore the masks.
And fire swallowed us.
We vanished into the wind.
Leaving no trace
in the world of men.
Sirius rose before me.
A burning sun.
A kingdom of light.
A realm
with one hundred forty-four planets
circling like silent gods.
Some entities
were not flesh.
They were vapor.
Gas.
Water made conscious.
Beings of breath
and memory.
And I knew.
Voodoo
was not witchcraft.
Voodoo
was advanced science
that Europe feared
and Africa forgot.
The unseen universe
opened like a wound.
Or a prophecy.
Or an ancient map
folded inside the soul.
The rays of light
became roads.
We walked upon them
as if they were stone.
My crown chakra broke open.
Voices of stars poured in.
I spoke with gods
that wear no names.
They say God is one.
But I saw many.
All woven
into the same eternal breath.
I learned
that life has no beginning.
And no end.
Only cycles.
Only return.
On that night
voodoo became
the father of quantum physics.
The night spoke creation.
The day spoke beauty.
And the cosmos
became my teacher.
When scientists ask,
“How do we reach the Sun?
How do we reach Mars?
How do we reach Pluto?”
I simply say,
“Ask the Voodoo Master.”
For through voodoo
I traveled beyond time.
Beyond form.
Beyond the known world.
Let them call it witchcraft.
Let them mock what they fear.
But I say to mankind:
Voodoo is pure science.
A door already open.
Waiting for man
to walk through
and see
the hidden universe
inside himself.
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