Spirit of the Dying Sun
It stands - unmoving,
like a spell pressed into the earth.
Antlers stretch like ancient branches,
cradling the burning sun behind.
Not a deer
but the memory of forests,
the whispered prayer of ancestors,
the heartbeat of stone.
That red glow
not just sunset,
but a wound from a thousand years,
a fire from a dream that never died.
Its eyes
not looking at us,
but through us,
toward the spirits still walking
in the wind of forgotten seasons.
Serin Alar
🖊Poem: Piahn
Spirit of the Dying Sun
It stands - unmoving,
like a spell pressed into the earth.
Antlers stretch like ancient branches,
cradling the burning sun behind.
Not a deer
but the memory of forests,
the whispered prayer of ancestors,
the heartbeat of stone.
That red glow
not just sunset,
but a wound from a thousand years,
a fire from a dream that never died.
Its eyes
not looking at us,
but through us,
toward the spirits still walking
in the wind of forgotten seasons.
🎨 Serin Alar
🖊Poem: Piahn
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