18/07/2025
The Song of Red Earth
In a land where the sun painted the sky in shades of fire, there lived a woman named Wiyaka and her daughter, Nita. Their village stood near the edge of the whispering pines, where red earth met blue sky, and every breath of wind carried stories of the ancestors.
Wiyaka was known not for her strength in battle or her skill in hunting, but for the songs she sang—songs that healed hearts, called down rain, and carried the wisdom of generations. Wrapped in her crimson robe patterned with the marks of her clan, she would sit each evening under the watching moon, cradling Nita in her arms, her voice weaving lullabies into the night.
But these were not ordinary songs.
They were songs of memory—of the buffalo that once thundered across the plains, of grandmothers who knew the language of plants, of a time when the stars told the people when to plant, when to gather, when to pray. Wiyaka’s songs were threads that tied the past to the present, keeping the old ways alive in a world that threatened to forget.
One day, a great silence came. The drums in the village fell quiet, and the people stopped gathering in circle. Machines came, cutting the trees, silencing the birds, scarring the sacred land. The children no longer played among the flowers. They were drawn away by glowing screens and stories that did not belong to them.
Nita, small and still, looked up at her mother. “Will the land forget us, Mama?”
Wiyaka held her tighter and whispered, “Not if we remember it first.”
That night, under the glowing white moon, Wiyaka sang a new song. It was a prayer, a promise, a call to the spirits. The earth listened. The wind stirred. And in the hearts of those who heard her voice, something ancient awoke.
Nita began to hum the melody the next day. Then others joined—children, elders, mothers, all singing the forgotten names of rivers, animals, and stars. Even the birds began to return, drawn by the rhythm of remembrance.
The forest healed slowly, and though the machines came and went, the songs remained. Wiyaka had taught Nita something sacred: that one voice, held with love, can echo across generations.
And so the red earth sang again—not in defiance, but in hope.
Please message me with the image you’re referring to, and I’ll gladly send you the poster link!
