The Weaver of Stars
I stand on the cold stone edge,
in the heart of night,
where light tears through the sky
like an ancient cloth of the Ancestors.
From my hands,
galaxies rise,
soft as the first breath of the world,
carrying my grandmother’s lullaby
for the souls not yet returned.
Each star is a memory—
the gone, the unfinished dreams,
and the things no one remembers
but me.
I am no goddess.
Only the one chosen
to mend the holes in the heavens
with light,
with nameless love,
and with the most beautiful loneliness of humankind.
Serin Alar
#nativeamericanwisdom
The Weaver of Stars
I stand on the cold stone edge,
in the heart of night,
where light tears through the sky
like an ancient cloth of the Ancestors.
From my hands,
galaxies rise,
soft as the first breath of the world,
carrying my grandmother’s lullaby
for the souls not yet returned.
Each star is a memory—
the gone, the unfinished dreams,
and the things no one remembers
but me.
I am no goddess.
Only the one chosen
to mend the holes in the heavens
with light,
with nameless love,
and with the most beautiful loneliness of humankind.
🎨 Serin Alar
#nativeamericanwisdom
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