The Woken Slumber

picture created by @Theacidjazzguitarist

The Woken Slumber

In the beginning,

there was only Light,

and Life.

 From their union rose the First Flame—

a breath of stars,

a seed of earth,

a whisper woven from fire and soil.

 Heavenly Father,

sky-born god of time and flame,

and Earth Mother,

keeper of breath and river,

were not two,

but one—

a love,

divided only in form,

never in purpose.

 They danced,

and from their dance bloomed the world.

 They shaped the sacred Garden—

where rivers ran with gold,

trees sang in the wind,

and stars laughed across the sky.

 “Let us make them,”

they said,

“in our image,

after our flame.”

 And so humanity was formed—

fragile, radiant,

spirits woven from divine thread,

not merely to follow,

but to rise,

to co-create,

to ascend.

 But not all in the heavens rejoiced.

 From the edge of the void,

came the Envious One,

once a steward of stars,

now cloaked in shadow,

hungering for dominion.

 By her side flew the Evil Angel,

winged whisperer of ruin,

bearing lies dressed as light.

 They sowed a new race—

their own,

made not for harmony,

but for conquest.

 Their purpose:

to colonize,

to consume,

to crown themselves kings over creation.

 And so temptation took root—

thorned and wild.

Harmony cracked.

Greed grew teeth.

Judgment drew blood.

 And the Garden bled,

ink-black sorrow staining sacred soil.

 When sin touched the Tree of Breath—

the axis of all life—

the Garden broke.

 Bound by divine law,

but broken in heart,

the Divine wept.

 They could not undo what will had chosen.

But they could protect.

 With sacrifice,

they fell.

They tore themselves from heaven,

that Earth might live.

 Afrikka descended—

becoming soil and stone,

fruit and womb,

the warmth beneath bare feet.

 She speaks to her children

in the rustle of leaves,

the hush of rain,

the curl of vine around branch.

 Yahweh faded into myth,

his voice a whisper in stars,

his flame scattered,

awaiting the call.

 The curse upon his people shall break,

when they rise from slumber.

For their God—

his fire is not gone.

 Each kind word,

rekindles him.

Each seed,

planted in love.

Each hand,

held in grace.

Each song,

sung in faith—

 Each awakens an ember.

 When Earth is honored,

Afrikka stirs.

When truth is remembered,

Yahweh shines.

 And when his light burns full,

chains will shatter.

The Envious shall lose her grip.

Her children’s hearts will melt.

And Afrikka will gather them

to her bosom.

 They will be known.

They will be loved.

 Afrikka shall rise in bloom,

and her source—in brilliance.

 They will return—

not to the old Garden,

but to one forged through pain,

and love,

and choosing.

 A Second Eden,

not gifted,

but earned.

Born not from innocence,

but from deep understanding.

 Until then,

Afrikka dreams beneath our feet.

Yahweh watches from the stars.

 And the children of Light and Life—

we—

must awaken.

 -I Am Woke-