I walk where the sun folds into the moon,
barefoot upon the breath of worlds.
The earth hums beneath my step—
a low song older than fire.
In my cloak, the colors of storms and stillness,
woven from prayers of those who remember.
Each hue a promise:
that even after the burning, rain will come.
The staff I hold bears the faces of the dawn,
its light not mine,
but the echo of all who walked before.
I do not command the sky—
I listen to it.
And when the wind bends my name,
I answer only with silence.
For balance is not kept by power,
but by knowing when to let go—
when to be the rainbow
after the thunder’s roar.
Wičháȟpi Lúta —
He Who Walks the Path Between Light.
