WOMAN OF NIGHTFALL
She stands where the river drinks the moon,
where sky unrolls its trembling green —
a Native daughter carved in quiet,
strong the way still water is strong.
A raven cuts the northern light,
its wings like an old prophecy —
remember, remember,
it seems to say.
She does not kneel before the world,
she listens to it —
to ancestors folded in aurora silk,
to name the wind still pronounces.
Her silence is not absence —
It is a vow held between ribs:
that her people will not fade
while even one woman remains
to face the night
without closing her eyes.
Artist and narrator: Elvis Becker
WOMAN OF NIGHTFALL
She stands where the river drinks the moon,
where sky unrolls its trembling green —
a Native daughter carved in quiet,
strong the way still water is strong.
A raven cuts the northern light,
its wings like an old prophecy —
remember, remember,
it seems to say.
She does not kneel before the world,
she listens to it —
to ancestors folded in aurora silk,
to name the wind still pronounces.
Her silence is not absence —
It is a vow held between ribs:
that her people will not fade
while even one woman remains
to face the night
without closing her eyes.
🎨Artist and narrator: Elvis Becker
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