Her Hair, the River Remembers

Her hair flows like a river born of prayer.
carrying the breath of Mother Earth.
Each strand remembers mountains and clay.
The first footsteps pressed into sacred ground.

It sings with the voices of the ancestors.
low and steady as drums beneath the soil.
In its dark current lives the spirit of a people.
unbroken, listening, enduring.

When the wind moves through it,
The land itself seems to speak
of seasons braided together,
of loss held gently, of hope returning.

She stands, and the river becomes her crown.
Not owned, not divided, only alive.
In her hair, the earth finds its reflection.
And the soul of a native heart flows on.

Art by Serin Alar

Poem: Piahn