From the Fields of Our Ancestors We rise like stalks in golden rows, children of sun, of earth, of rain. Each tribe a woven story, rooted deep in sacred grain. The kernels hold our mothers’ songs, our fathers’ prayers, our elders’ fire. From husks of time, new voices bloom, each breath a gift, each step entire. Generations stand like harvest moons, their colors bright, their spirits one. From the fields, from the rivers, from the soil, we are many—yet we are the same song begun. Corn, the giver, cradles our birth, Its whisper feeds the soul of the land. Through its leaves, we see our ancestors— guiding us, with open hand. 🎨 Serin Alar