They rise from the earth like something ancient,
born again of molten lava, sunset fire, and black sand.
Their skin still carries the warmth of creation,
their eyes holding the memory of something wild and sacred.
They are not walking toward you.
They are walking into you -
to slip beneath the surface,
to stir what sleeps,
to awaken the raw, instinctual force you’ve tried to silence.
They are the echo of what you were
before the world told you to be small
