I pressed my palm to the moss-slick stone, Felt the hum of names not my own. Beneath the bark, the root replied— A spiral carved in silence wide. No ink was used, no hand did draw, No blade, no blood, no sacred law. The soil knows the shapes we bear— It reads our grief, it leaves us bare. So lay me low, O listening earth, Carve your sigil in my worth. I ask no god, I name no flame— The root remembers just the same. The elder tree does not forgive, But it forgets in time. We do not offer songs to be heard— We offer them to return. So lay me low, O listening earth, Carve your sigil in my worth. I carry you in every tread— The soil beneath, the silent thread. Sigil of soil, Symbol of end. Every footstep, Every friend. Same return, Same root, Same wind.
