The earth groans beneath the weight of forgotten prayers. Her belly shakes, her breath becomes wind and flame. The rivers no longer sing, but roar with anger, flooding the lowlands and drowning the careless paths of men. Smoke rises like the mourning songs of widows; the trees cry out as their limbs are devoured by fire. The bones of the ancestors stir in their resting places, whispering that the balance has been broken. The sacred hoop trembles, cracked by greed and deafened by those who will not listen. All around, the signs speak—rain without mercy, fire without end, silence where once there was bird and beast. Death walks not in shadows now, but openly, with ash on its tongue and sorrow in its footprints.
Yet in the midst of ruin, Great Creator breathes. From the smoke, He forms new seed. In the blackened soil, He hides the spark of rebirth. His voice rides the storm winds, calling the hearts of the people to remember, to return. The Great Spirit’s hands shape life from death, just as the eagle rises from still branches into the open sky. He does not forget His children, though they wander. Even as the earth revolts, His love does not. The sacred rhythm is not lost, only buried beneath the noise. When the people lift their eyes and place their feet once more upon the path of harmony, then the rains shall cleanse, not drown. Then the fires shall warm, not consume. From the dust, life shall again dance.