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

Song of a Hummingbird I am but a flicker of wings, a heartbeat carried on the wind. Today, I fly not alone— My brothers and sisters circle with me. We find the blossom, a crown of colors at the world’s center, It's nectar sweet as morning rain, Its fragrance is a hymn to the sky. We do not quarrel, Beauty is endless when shared. One by one, we drink its light, and in return, we give it flight— a halo of shimmering feathers. Listen: in our dance around the flower, You may hear the secret of joy— that even the smallest souls can guard the universe with love. 🎨 Serin Alar

FIREAID; hey fire aid organizers, I know SOME of you are watching. $100 Million Dollars were supposed to be given directly to poeple affected by the Jan. 7, 2025. You gave it to intercity groups, minorities OF COLOR and not one dime went any one of 12,000 White Jews whose house burned and were displaced, living in hotels (still), paying their mortgage and unable to rebuild. You are RACIST, you’re going to get sued, no more donations to any ANY, charitable organization, no more hiring brown or blacks, no more voting for brown, blacks, minorities, Muslims, Indians only whites. I also am a concealed carry permit holder and will enjoy trying out my new gun on you. Go ahead come and get some.

Wings of Prayer Within the shape of human form, butterfly wings unfold like flames of color, embracing the crimson sky with the gentle pulse of a soul. Hands pressed in quiet prayer, light rises like a sacred spring— calling rain to the grasslands, calling wind to the forests, calling peace to the earth that longs to heal again. The butterfly is me, the human is me— one body, one spirit, woven in eternal rhythm. O Mother Earth, Receive these wings as gratitude, Receive this breath as a bridge, So generations yet to come may live in the light, and in peace. 🎨 Serin Alar

https://justthenews.com/government/security/trump-move-space-command-colorado-alabama

Florida workers disassemble rainbow brick roads. Not painting over it... Not sand-blasting the colors off... Ripping the whole thing out as if the street has been desecrated.

The Northern Virginia Astronomy Club hosted a well-attended observing night at C.M. Crockett Park in Midland, Virginia on Saturday under clear skies revealing many deep-sky objects, the planet Saturn, and the Milky Way appearing as a colorful haze directly overhead as the First Quarter Moon dipped below the horizon. #NOVAC #CrockettPark #Midland #Virginia #UnderneathTheStars #NightSky #Astronomy

Gee, what do you want to bet that the color of the toddler's skin had some barring on the beating!!! https://www.thegatewaypundit.com/2025/08/sick-georgia-daycare-worker-charged-aggravated-battery-first/

Genesis 37:3 Now Israel loved Joseph more than all his sons because he was the son of his old age; and he made him a varicolored tunic. #SundaySentiments

Whisperwing, the Spirit of Night Blooms Long ago, when the Earth was young and the stars were still learning to dance, there lived a guardian spirit named Whisperwing, a sacred night butterfly born of moonlight and flower dreams. Her wings shimmered with the glow of dusk, painted in deep blues and violets—colors only seen in the quietest part of night. Whisperwing was created by Lunoma, the Moon Maiden, to carry messages between the spirit world and the dreams of the living. She fluttered through midnight meadows and across sleeping forests, her wings stirring wind that whispered secrets into flowers, guiding lost souls home. Every petal she touched would bloom with sacred light, and every shadow she passed through would remember her path. The stars watched her in awe, calling her "The Silent Flame", for she burned with no fire, but illuminated hearts. It was said that if you saw Whisperwing in your dreams, your soul was being chosen—for healing, for transformation, or for a journey. Elders taught that when the crescent moon rose high and the air smelled of wild lavender, you must leave a bowl of water and flowers by your door. If Whisperwing passed, the petals would float, and a new path would open in your life by morning. To this day, her legend lives on. Many Native dreamweavers still embroider her wings onto their blankets and sing to her under starlit skies: "Fly, Whisperwing, through sky and root, Bearer of truth on violet flute. Where moonlight dances, there you roam, Guide our spirit gently home." And so she flies—forever between the veil of night and bloom, unseen, yet always felt. #nativeamericanwisdom

Whispers Beneath the Moon In a meadow where the wildflowers glowed blue beneath the light of the full moon, two sisters stood side by side, their dark hair flowing like rivers of night. They were wrapped in sacred robes woven by their grandmother, stitched with strands of spirit and sky. Their names were Taya and Suni, daughters of the Moonwatcher Clan, known for their wisdom in reading the stars and listening to the whispers of the land. Tonight was no ordinary night. It was the Night of Remembering, when the veil between the past and present grew thin and the voices of the ancestors could be heard in the rustle of pine and the shimmer of stardust. As they gazed at the glowing moon, Taya whispered, “Can you hear them, Suni?” The younger sister nodded slowly. “They are singing.” The sky above swirled in purples and blues, the stars glittering like ancient eyes watching over them. A faint melody filled the air—not with instruments, but with memory. It was the song their mother used to sing at bedtime, the one passed down for generations. A lullaby of healing, of journeys across forests, of waiting under the moon for signs from the Great Spirit. Taya closed her eyes and placed a hand over her heart. “They are guiding us,” she said softly. “We are not alone.” Behind them, the forest stood like guardians, tall and silent. The sisters knew that tomorrow would bring challenges. The world outside their homeland was changing, forgetting, moving too fast. But here—beneath the moon—they remembered who they were. Daughters of the Earth. Carriers of old songs. Watchers of the sky. And in that sacred moment, the night sky pulsed with color, the stars danced a little brighter, and the spirits smiled—knowing that the story would live on through these two young souls. #nativeamericanwisdom

Hummingbird – The Spirit of Resilience and Light You are not small. You are the spark between heartbeats — The swift flash of spirit that defies the weight of the world. Born from the breath of the Sun and the whisper of flowers, You fly not by force, but by faith. You carry the memory of joy, The reminder that sweetness can still be found, Even in places where sorrow grows thick. Your wings hum like ancient drums, Beating the rhythm of life, Of persistence, Of returning — again and again — to what feeds the soul. You are the guardian of fleeting moments, The priestess of the now. While others chase horizons, You kiss the light that blooms in a single drop of morning dew. You are not directionless — You know exactly where to go. Across vast distances and violent winds, You return with purpose, Bearing the invisible threads of home. When grief has dulled the world’s colors, It is you who comes — A glimmer, a shimmer, a reminder That beauty still exists And hope can wear wings. You do not battle — You endure. You do not conquer — You bless. To the People, You were more than a bird. You were a spirit — A messenger of love, A weaver of joy, A sign that life endures, even in the smallest of forms. You have never been merely “a hummingbird” — You are the sacred flicker of resilience, The bearer of light in darkened skies, The breath of color in a gray world. You remind us that gentleness is a kind of power, And those who move lightly, Move far. #nativeamericanwisdom

The Celestial Stallion In the ancient lands where the sky meets the earth, there was a legendary horse named Awen. His coat was as dark as the midnight sky, and his body was adorned with glowing symbols, marks of a spiritual connection to the stars above. It was said that Awen was the descendant of the first horses, the ones who were born from the stars to guide the spirits of the earth. On the night of the Great Alignment, when the stars aligned perfectly with the mountain peaks, Awen would stand alone on the highest cliff, his body glowing with the colors of the cosmos. The glowing symbols on his body were said to be ancient constellations, and each one represented a different element of life — the sun, the moon, the earth, the spirit. It was through these symbols that Awen connected with the universe, acting as a bridge between the celestial and earthly realms. This night, the air was thick with magic, and the sky shimmered with the light of countless stars. Awen stood proudly, his mane flowing like the river of time, while a stream of glowing energy moved across the land. As the moon rose high above, he let out a soft whinny, and the ground beneath his hooves began to glow in response. It was the sacred path of his ancestors, a path that led toward the unknown, a path of discovery. As Awen trotted forward, the trail of stardust behind him formed a glowing river, flowing through the valley like a beam of light. The people, the animals, and the spirits watched in awe, for they knew this was a journey that could only be taken by one chosen by the stars. Awen's journey was not just a physical one, but a spiritual journey. He carried the hopes, dreams, and wisdom of all who had come before him. The night was his canvas, and the stars, his guide. As the glowing symbols danced on his body, they painted a story of life, of connection, of light and shadow — a reminder that we are all part of the same cosmic dance, guided by the spirit of the earth and the stars. #nativeamericanwisdom

https://babylonbee.com/news/american-eagle-apologizes-replaces-sydney-sweeney-with-fat-transgender-double-amputee-of-color

Woven in Color Not just colors— but prayers woven in red ochre, stories told in turquoise light, songs etched in the black of night and the white of sacred snow. Each thread is a direction. Each hue is a spirit. Yellow—the rising sun, a path for beginnings. Blue—the sky’s breath, where eagles soar with names unspoken. Red—the blood of earth and kin, still pulsing in the drums. Black—the depth of knowing, the shadow that teaches. White—the light of silence, where ancestors sit and listen. These are not ornaments— they are memory. They are warning. They are blessing. A cloak of cosmos, wrapped around a people who dance, even when the world forgets their song. #nativeamericanwisdom 🎨 Serin Alar

Rise with the Sun Arms lifted to the breaking sky, She calls not for herself, But for the earth beneath her feet, For the rivers, for the flowers in bloom. The sun answers in colors— Red, gold, violet, flame— A promise that the land lives on, As long as hearts remember. Birds spiral in light, Messengers of hope, Carrying her song across the hills, Across the cactus and stone. No battle cry, no war drums— Only quiet strength rising like dawn: We are still here. We will always be here. #nativeamericanwisdom

Colorado Parents Live in the Shadow of Marxism Marxists view family as a threat to the state—and apparently so does Colorado https://thegoldreport.substack.com/p/colorado-parents-live-in-the-shadow?publication_id=2439317&post_id=168264198&isFreemail=true&r=1maoyr&triedRedirect=true&utm_source=substack&utm_medium=email

Whispers Beneath the Moon In a meadow where the wildflowers glowed blue beneath the light of the full moon, two sisters stood side by side, their dark hair flowing like rivers of night. They were wrapped in sacred robes woven by their grandmother, stitched with strands of spirit and sky. Their names were Taya and Suni, daughters of the Moonwatcher Clan, known for their wisdom in reading the stars and listening to the whispers of the land. Tonight was no ordinary night. It was the Night of Remembering, when the veil between the past and present grew thin and the voices of the ancestors could be heard in the rustle of pine and the shimmer of stardust. As they gazed at the glowing moon, Taya whispered, “Can you hear them, Suni?” The younger sister nodded slowly. “They are singing.” The sky above swirled in purples and blues, the stars glittering like ancient eyes watching over them. A faint melody filled the air—not with instruments, but with memory. It was the song their mother used to sing at bedtime, the one passed down for generations. A lullaby of healing, of journeys across forests, of waiting under the moon for signs from the Great Spirit. Taya closed her eyes and placed a hand over her heart. “They are guiding us,” she said softly. “We are not alone.” Behind them, the forest stood like guardians, tall and silent. The sisters knew that tomorrow would bring challenges. The world outside their homeland was changing, forgetting, moving too fast. But here—beneath the moon—they remembered who they were. Daughters of the Earth. Carriers of old songs. Watchers of the sky. And in that sacred moment, the night sky pulsed with color, the stars danced a little brighter, and the spirits smiled—knowing that the story would live on through these two young souls. #nativeamericanwisdom

'What Happens in Colorado Doesn't Stay There' with Erin Lee https://thegoldreport.substack.com/p/what-happens-in-colorado-doesnt-stay?publication_id=2439317&post_id=167458755&isFreemail=false&r=1maoyr&triedRedirect=true&utm_source=substack&utm_medium=email

https://www.zerohedge.com/political/old-white-boomers-day-antifa-night-no-kings-color-revolution

https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1780582027381989376?referrer=therealrazingcane Vladimir Putin doesn’t mince words. “No US president truly holds power. And now, even Donald Trump,once the loudmouth promising peace,shows his true colors by backing attacks on Iran. Just another puppet controlled by the Deep State, serving the machine while pretending to lead.”

https://www.zerohedge.com/political/rogue-ngos-prepare-nationwide-color-revolution-walmart-heiress-calls-mobilization

https://www.zerohedge.com/political/riots-erupt-la-ice-facility-mexican-blm-clone-unleashes-color-revolution-operation

Shoot them all. https://www.zerohedge.com/political/marxist-linked-unrest-worsens-los-angeles-amid-coordinated-color-revolution