digital-art

the vine of the soul whispers, through city veins and jungle roots, an ancient hymn, a green thread weaving the chaos of steel with the breath of leaves.
I drink the dream, this sacred vine, not as the West names it—illusion, escape— but as the Ingas do: a doorway, a pulse, a river of spirit.
Mother Earth, your skin of moss and concrete, your bones of stone and iron, witness to our stumbling dance, keeper of our ancestors' echoes.
you are Bengbe Wáman Tabanok, the sacred origin, departure, and return, where the first breath and last sigh meet, a circle, a promise, a hearth.
among glass towers and vine-laced groves, I wander the in-between, eyes wide in ceremony, heart split open like ripe fruit.
I do not preach decolonization— I offer a mirror, a soft invitation: to find the sacred in the subway hum, to see the spirit in the rustling leaves.