Nathalie Fuchs La Source

15/02/2026

15/02/2026

Whispers of the Forest

I offer smoke to the four winds,
my hands open to the sky
May the hearts of men be gentle,
and their feet leave no wounds upon the earth.

I sing for the deer,
whose eyes hold the stillness of morning
May no arrow break their silence,
may they run beneath the moon, unchained.

I pray for the wolves,
my brothers with voices like old songs
May no cage silence their howl,
may their paths be wide as the rivers.

I speak to the Great Spirit,
not with fear, but with belonging
Let all who walk, crawl, fly, or swim
know the sacred right to roam free.

🎨: Serin Alar

🖊️Poem: Piahn

15/02/2026

15/02/2026

Knowledge is passed not by words, but by the quiet patience of those who listen.

13/02/2026

13/02/2026

09/02/2026

The Heartbeat Beneath the Forest

She sits where the forest opens its chest,
her back resting against an old tree
whose roots remember more names
than any human tongue.

She does not speak.
She listens.

The earth beneath her breathes
a deep, steady drum
beating far below stones and bones.
She places her hand upon her heart
and feels the same rhythm answering back.

Pine and moss rise into the air,
warm soil and rain-soaked leaves
carry stories into her lungs.
Each breath is a greeting,
each exhale a quiet thank you.

Butterflies pass like small prayers,
wings brushing the silence.
The wind combs her hair
as if she is a daughter
returned after a long journey.

She hears the forest thinking
trees leaning toward one another,
roots whispering beneath the dark.
They tell her she belongs.
They tell her she always has.

In this moment
she is not alone,
not separate,
not small.

She is the listening.
She is the heartbeat.
She is the breath of Mother Earth
remembering herself
through a human soul.

🎨 Art by Serin Alar

🖊️Poem: Piahn

09/02/2026

Keepers of the Moonlight

They walk in silence, robed in night,
Their cloaks of stars and woven light.

When moon is full and winds are still,
They cross the ridge, beyond the hill
To sing the songs the earth once knew,
In languages of dusk and dew.

Each footstep hums a tale long kept,
Of rivers dreamed and mountains wept.
Their hands hold prayers not meant to fade,
Of mothers lost, of hopes remade.

Through them, the forest learns to heal,
The stars remember how to feel.
And those who see them, hearts grown wide,
Will know the old ones never died

🎨 Art by Serin Alar
🖊️Poem: Piahn

05/02/2026

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The One Who Carries Without Owning

Before names were given to roads,
before iron learned to bite the earth,
he stood listening—
a living pause between intention and arrival.

The land did not claim him,
and he did not claim the land.
They agreed instead
to move together.

Feathers rest against his neck
like remembered breaths of ancestors,
beads hold the patience of hands
that once trusted the journey more than the destination.
Nothing here is ornament—
everything is a vow.

He knows the weight of another’s fear
before the first step is taken.
He knows when to slow,
when to stop,
when to refuse the path that asks too much.

In the Northwest,
wisdom is measured by what you do not take.
Strength is proven by what you return.

This is why he carries us—
not as a master,
not as a tool,
but as a reminder
that movement must honor memory,
that every journey borrows from the earth,
and that arrival means nothing
if the land cannot recognize you
when you come back.

27/01/2026

The One Who Carries the Change

The butterfly opens its wings
not to escape,
but to remember
who it was before the wind.

Every pattern is a promise,
every color a path once walked
by ancestors who learned
how to leave without disappearing.

It does not rush the sky.
It trusts the season
that shaped its silence
inside the dark.

When it rises,
the forest feels lighter—
as if grief itself
has learned how to breathe.

Transformation is not loss.
It is the spirit
finding a new way
to remain.
🎨Artist and storyteller: Hacudo
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