artsphere

the Inga stands, ancient soul beneath the canopy, keeper of the threads of life, where roots whisper to stone, and rivers hum the hymns of time.
protector, not of dominion, but of belonging— a sacred weave we once wore, before the colonizer's blade severed us from the womb of the Earth.
what is "ours" was never stone, but clay, shaped by hands, molded in fire and story, not essence, but a dance, a spiral of becoming.
Europe forged its own, polished in steel and smoke, and cast the "other" as shadow, tradition turned to dust,  progress a blade against the wild.
But must we mimic conquest? no— let us birth our own truth, not as conquerors of the soul, but as waters that emerge,
clear and unyielding, from the dark mouth of the spring— a flow unbound, nourishing every root, every truth, without fear.
let us not inherit the blade, but the bloom— not the iron fist, but the open palm, where seeds of the "other" find their soil and sky.