From the seventh heaven, mother calls
Through the rumble and thuds upon the earth
Her message travels through the veins of rivers and the open seas
We are thousands of miles apart,
Yet her longing is
The mountain’s held breath that breaks with the wind's roar behind the hills
The hard soil that refuses trees and shrubs, withstanding the blast
Only the wise tundra grows, rooting deep within transience
Sending dreams of green fields that melt the eyes
"Become a wanderer, my child," she hums as I unfold the long pages of my canvas
A canvas once submerged in the stony rivers of my homeland
And forged by the relentless, merciless heat of noon
From the seventh heaven, mother cries
We are women who give birth to stones, to trees, to the streams,
Our wombs are the universe that births all living things upon the world
Paint us with joy!
Mother, mountain, earth, and the river I worship
I have uprooted myself to become a walking tree
I will give the sky I promised, handed down from old, forgotten fables.