The world is not ending,
It is remembering.
Beneath the cities and the din,
Beneath the clatter of thought and the rhythm of clocks,
The Earth is breathing again-
Slow, low,
A dragon’s breath in winter.
I walk- barefoot still-
On moss and morning frost,
While the owls write symbols in the dark
And the fox listens, ears tilted to silence.
We are not late.
Not one of us.
Each soul arrives at the turning
When its feet are ready to walk.
And what is this path we feel beneath us,
If not the back of some ancient serpent
Curving across ley lines and longing?
My hands remember-
How to bless seeds,
How to soothe bees,
How to lift the sky
With a whisper.
The wolves of the north howl again,
Not for war but for waking.
They call not to break,
But to mend.
The dragons are rising- not in fire
But in gold light
From under mountains,
From beneath spine and root.
And all the people-
Even those who do not yet see-
Are humming a note in their bones,
A note that says: Now. Now it begins.
Do not fear the rift.
It is the skin of the old world
Peeling back
So that we may feel
The sun
Without walls.
And I, am not here to lead nor follow,
But to walk beside-
With my satchel of salt,
My coat full of feathers,
And a soft smile
For the child who still dreams
Of sky kingdoms.
We are going home
Not backwards,
But inwards-
To the place we never truly left.
And there,
At the threshold of all things,
We shall greet the dragons
With an open palm
And say,
“We remember you.
Will you walk with us
Towards the dawn?”
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