Breath speaks on the wind, whispers within, rivers give onto those where life begins. We are the original source, creators, our quiet quake beneath the soil. Earth is my Church, it's branches the archways, it's stones the steeple and the eyes of all my ancestors break the viel
It feels like a blur, nothing is real anymore, I can only dream of walking this path upwards, with the stars in my eye and maybe some moonlight π₯ΊπΏ ... Where the cold numbs the hurt