I see not a sun, the ceiling be green
My eyes fall downwards, my shoes are so wet
My clothes have been ruffled, torn, what a scene!

The air sticks around, thick with many scents
A drop from my forehead joins the river
Later we must set up our many tents
So hungry, I feel it near my liver

Trudging through mud, dirt, and insects, not quick
Roots cover the floor, make sure not to trip
The humidness causes me to be sick
Brief gusts of cool air that pass, I worship

Romps through this jagged jungle are journeys,
I do find this place still otherwordly.