10/30/2025
Bear Beneath the Ancestors’ Ring
He stands where coal-black soil still steams,
between the waking and the dreams;
behind his crown, a moon-white ring
like halo cast by everything
the elders whispered into bone —
that strength should never walk alone.
A feather marks his listening ear,
for shamans say the beasts can hear
what men forget when towns are built —
the vows before the age of guilt.
Around his paws, small fires bloom —
orange sparks in ashen gloom;
they rise like seeds of untold prayer
the Earth entrusted to the Bear.
He does not roar, he does not move —
and silence is the proof of proof:
that some things holy do not shout —
they simply stand — and burn without.
🎨 Minda Moris
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