Vivre l'Ayurvéda

“Wings of the Ancestors”

She carries the weight of the sun on her shoulders,
the glow of the moon on her back
her wings, vast as the prairie sky,
painted with the songs of those who came before.

Each feather hums with memory,
each color whispers a name
the echo of drums,
the prayer of rivers,
the breath of buffalo across open plains.

She walks not alone,
but with the spirits who carved stories into the wind.
They rise with her heartbeat,
they rest in the curve of her shadow.

She is the daughter of fire and dust,
the keeper of languages unspoken yet alive.
And when she spreads her wings,
the earth remembers
and the people live again.

(Art by Serin Alar)
🖊️Poem: Piahn

On porte tous une part d’ombre et une part de lumière.
La force, c’est d’apprendre à avancer avec les deux. ✨

Et toi, laquelle te fait le plus grandir en ce moment : 𝐥’𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐚 𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐢𝐞̀𝐫𝐞 ?

Where the Horse Keeps Her Sorrows

The white horse came to her
on a quiet moon night,
when the rivers were sleeping
and even the wind spoke softly.

He lowered his head beside her
as if he already knew
the weight she carried inside.

“Why do you walk
with so much sadness in your spirit?”
the horse asked.

The girl touched his silver mane
and answered:

“Because I have loved deeply.
Because I have lost things
I cannot call back.”

The horse stood silent for a long while.

Then he said,

“The earth loses the leaves every autumn,
yet spring still returns.
The moon disappears,
yet she always finds her way back to the sky.”

The girl closed her eyes,
listening.

His breath was warm as cedar smoke.
His heartbeat sounded
like distant drums beneath the mountains.

“My people once believed,”
the horse whispered,
“that sorrow is not meant
to be carried forever.
You must place some of it
into the hands of the earth.”

So she leaned her forehead against his,
and little by little,
her grief flowed out
like rain returning to the soil.

The stars watched quietly.

And before dawn arrived,
the horse spoke once more:

“You are not alone, daughter of the earth.
Even wounded spirits
still deserve to run free.”

🎨 Art by Serin Alar
🖊️Poem: Piahn