Across the shallow valley we persist,
Conquistadors concealing but one wish:
To sip of her font and on it subsist.
We trek e’er onward, prof’ring an alms dish.
To beg upon her temple mound is bliss;
A certain pleasure, holy and reborn,
As though prayers could somehow conceal a kiss.
A jungle yet divides us, now we’re torn.
But, in the distance, a blonde wind blows low;
It whispers card’nal points which guide us far,
Exciting us, allowing us to grow.
We thank the heavens for our “Lucky Star.”
She whose stride is but legend ’cross the sky,
Jourdan, we seek in you a true ally.