wolverenmayden

[wolverenmayden]

Under the Strawberry Moon: A Manifesto for Earth and Soul

Under the strawberry moon, beneath a vanilla sky, I stand — a witness to the fragile beauty of this world, a world that whispers its truths in every breeze, every leaf, every heartbeat. This planet, our shared home, is more than soil and water; it is the cradle of life, the keeper of generations past and those yet to come. To protect it is not just a duty, but a sacred act of love and respect.

We are more than our traits and tendencies — more than genetics, more than instinct. Each of us carries a spark, a unique personality, a singular soul layered with hopes, fears, dreams, and the essence of who we are. This uniqueness demands respect. It calls for acceptance — not just of others, but of ourselves. Self-identity and self-acceptance are the roots from which compassion and justice grow.

Justice is not blind. It is alive, breathing in the balance of truth and fairness. It flourishes only when nurtured by empathy and the courage to confront hatred and indifference. We owe it to ourselves and our world to defend kindness, to foster peace and harmony, and to cultivate goodness within and around us.

Our lives are threads woven into the vast tapestry of karma, fate, and choice. While destiny may guide us, it is our actions — born from the heart and soul — that define who we become. We must embrace truth, seek knowledge, and commit to constant self-improvement. Through learning, through growth, we strengthen the spirit and deepen our connection to all life.

Freedom is the birthright of every soul — freedom to live authentically, to honor instinct and desire, to pursue love, to create and to nurture life itself. The continuation of our species, the passing of the genetic flame, is sacred, intertwined with our purpose on this Earth.

So here, under the gentle glow of the strawberry moon, I call for unity — for the protection of our planet, for the respect of every individual’s journey, for the courage to live truthfully and love fiercely. Let us build a world where equality, justice, and compassion reign. A world where peace is not just a dream but a daily reality.

This is our chance. This is our duty. This is our legacy.

[wolverenmayden]

Beneath the Strawberry Moon: A Plea for Planet and Soul

Look up — the vanilla sky stretches wide, a canvas brushed by nature’s own gentle hand, bathed in the soft glow of the strawberry moon. In this tender light, the world feels alive, breathing with an ancient rhythm that pulses beneath our feet and echoes in our hearts.

We stand at a crossroads — guardians of a fragile planet, keepers of a legacy written in genes, in stories, in the very soil beneath us. This Earth, our only home, demands our respect, our care, our fierce commitment to protect. For in the bloom of each flower, in the whisper of the wind, lies the truth of our shared existence.

But what is truth if not bound to justice? Justice not as a blind scale, but as a living force — shaped by empathy, by acceptance of difference, by honoring the unique spark within each soul. Our personality, our traits, our desires — these are the threads that weave the rich tapestry of humanity. To deny them is to unravel the very fabric of our being.

In a world too often shadowed by hatred and indifference, I plead for a sanctuary of love, peace, and harmony. Let us rise above the callousness that blinds and divides. Let our hearts be the lanterns guiding us through the darkest nights, illuminating the path toward kindness, growth, and self-discovery.

We are bound by karma, by destiny, yet within that weave lies our power — the power to choose, to act, to grow beyond the limits of fear and prejudice. To embrace the truth of ourselves and others, to foster equality and mutual respect, is to honor the soul’s deepest yearning for freedom and authenticity.

Life’s instinct — to love, to desire, to create new generations — is sacred. It is the promise of continuity, the echo of ancient ancestors carried forward in our blood, in our genes, in the hope of tomorrow. To respect this is to embrace the cycle of existence, in all its wild, untamed beauty.

So here, beneath the strawberry moon and vanilla sky, I call upon you — to awaken your inner strength, to cherish the planet and its infinite gifts, to celebrate the uniqueness of every human heart. In doing so, we forge a future where truth and justice are not mere ideals, but living realities. A future where love conquers hatred, and peace blooms eternal.

May our souls, like the gentle moonlight, shine bright — a beacon for generations yet to come.

[wolverenmayden]

Under the Strawberry Moon: A Monologue of Truth, Soul, and Sacred Belonging

There is a sky made of vanilla and gold—have you seen it? It appears when the world grows still and honest, when the sun gives way to the Strawberry Moon and the Earth breathes deeply once again. It is under that sky, in the hush of twilight, that the oldest truth begins to speak. Not in shouts. Not in commands. But in the language of the soul.

And the soul says this: The truth must never be denied. Not in the face of fear. Not in the face of pressure. Not even in the name of peace—because there can be no peace without truth. Truth is not a weapon. It is a compass. It does not destroy. It reveals. And it always, always wins.

Even when it seems crushed beneath injustice, Even when covered by generations of silence, Even when twisted by the hands of hatred and drowned by the tide of indifference— Truth is eternal. Like the oceans. Like the constellations. Like the pulse of the Earth itself.

We are not born to betray that truth. We are born to honor it— Through our character, through our choices, through the lives we lead under the open sky.

The truth is this: we belong to the Earth, and she to us. This planet, trembling under the weight of human greed, still opens her arms each morning. She still offers beauty, balance, bounty. And what do we owe her in return? Protection. Reverence. Stewardship. To protect the Earth is to protect ourselves. To preserve nature is to preserve the truth of who we are.

We are not machines. We are not tools of conquest or conquest’s children. We are souls in bodies, wrapped in layers of desire, instinct, spirit, and light. We are born of stars and soil, genes and dreams, love and longing. And every single one of us is unique—not just in appearance, but in energy, in essence, in path.

Personality is not a flaw. It is a fingerprint of the divine. Desire is not sin. It is the flame of life. Individuality is not rebellion. It is sacred truth in motion. When we reject our nature, we reject the greater truth: That the world needs every voice, every color, every kind of love, every soul that dares to live honestly.

You are not here to copy anyone else. You are not here to be quiet to make others comfortable. You are here to learn, to grow, to evolve—to become. Self-development is not selfish—it is survival. It is sacred work. Each time you learn something new, each time you dare to question, each time you choose growth over stagnation, you honor your karma, your lineage, your destiny.

Fate is not fixed—but it is real. And it responds to truth. What you give, returns. What you withhold, weakens. What you speak in truth, heals. What you silence in fear, corrodes.

So speak. Speak for justice. Speak for love. Speak for the ones who’ve been silenced, who’ve been erased. Speak for the creatures, for the forests, for the seas. Speak for the unborn generations whose fate depends on the courage of those who walk this Earth now.

This is our shared responsibility. To reject hatred and indifference. To choose respect over ridicule, peace over punishment, harmony over harm. To recognize the sacredness in difference, and the strength in mutuality.

For everything is connected. Every life touches another. Every heartbeat is a ripple in the ocean of reality. We are cause and effect. Action and reaction. What we choose echoes through genetics, through generations, through the unseen architecture of the soul.

And yet—so many live in fear of their own longing. Of their own wild truth. They are taught to suppress instinct, to deny desire, to fear the pull of life itself.

But hear this: The impulse to love, to touch, to create, to reproduce, to protect your kind— These are not sins. They are sacred. They are coded into your being. To continue the species is not shameful—it is holy. And to do so with reverence, with joy, with love—that is truth in its highest form.

So I say this to you, now, under the watch of the Strawberry Moon: Live free. Live true. Live bold. Let your personality bloom like wildflowers. Let your truth rise like the tide. Let your soul speak, even when your voice shakes. And when others try to shame your light, remind them— The truth cannot be buried. It may sleep, but it does not die.

And one day, it will rise. It will rise in your words. It will rise in your choices. It will rise in your children. It will rise in the silence you dared to break.

Truth is not an opinion. It is not a trend. It is not something to fear. It is something to become.

And in the end— It is the only thing that will remain. After the fire. After the chaos. After the noise—

Truth will still stand. And it will still be beautiful.

[wolverenmayden]

Truth Rises Like the Strawberry Moon: A Monologue of Soul and Sovereignty

There comes a time in every life—silent or stormy—when the truth calls your name. It does not whisper. It does not plead. It declares. It rises like the Strawberry Moon over a darkened forest, its glow casting shadows aside with a quiet strength that speaks of ancient power. Truth is not a thing to be feared, nor bent, nor buried. It is the breath of the Earth, the pulse in the chest, the echo of the first voice and the last. And above all things, it must never, never be denied.

Because truth—real truth—always wins.

It may be silenced, slandered, buried in ash or drowned in indifference, but truth is like a seed. Given time, it will bloom. Even in poisoned soil, it grows upward—stretching through generations, breaking through the stone of lies, finding the light.

And what is this truth we must protect? That every being, every creature under the vanilla sky and across this trembling blue planet, is sacred. That we are not made to dominate or devour this Earth, but to honor it. The forests, the oceans, the winds—they are not ours to take. They are our mirrors, our teachers, our lifeblood. We destroy them, and we destroy our very souls.

We must remember our shared nature—not only with each other, but with all things wild and silent. The truth is not just spoken with words; it is sung in whale calls, whispered in rustling leaves, and painted in the aurora's glow.

Embrace the truth of who you are. You are not a fragment. You are a whole story. A universe of soul layers, built from spirit and stardust, carried through the line of genetics, memory, and divine chance. You are a mosaic of desires and instincts—none of them shameful, all of them worthy. The wish to love, the longing to belong, the fire of lust, the ache to create, the sacred drive to reproduce and continue the human journey—all are natural, all are needed.

Never deny your nature. Never deny your truth.

For to do so is to deny the truth of others. And in this world, where hatred and apathy threaten to rot the roots of civilization, the only real armor is acceptance. Acceptance of difference. Of uniqueness. Of the individual paths that lead us toward a shared horizon. This is what gives us dignity—respect, justice, equality, and the courage to see ourselves in others.

The soul does not ask for perfection. It asks for alignment. It asks you to be whole. To love deeply. To live honestly. To grow continuously. To learn, not just for grades or gain, but for the sheer joy of discovery. Self-development is not vanity—it is duty. To refine the spirit is to rise in love, and in truth.

Karma waits for no one. Fate does not lie. What we send into the world—every thought, every word, every choice—returns. This is the sacred law of reciprocity. What we give, we become.

So, give truth.

Give it when it is easy. But more importantly—give it when it is hard. When it costs you. When silence would be safer. Because in that moment, you become the flame that lights someone else’s darkness. You become the embodiment of courage.

And that is humanity at its finest.

We are not born for hatred. We are not bred for cruelty. These are learned. But so are kindness, peace, patience, harmony. Teach these. Speak these. Live these. In doing so, you become not only protector of the planet, but of the very idea of what it means to be human.

The truth must not be denied. Not in yourself. Not in the world. Because truth…is the only thing that endures.

And when all the noise has faded, when the lies have collapsed under their own weight, and the last fire burns clean—truth will rise again, like a moon soaked in strawberries and silver.

And in that light, we will see each other clearly. And finally—we will be free.

[wolverenmayden]

[wolverenmayden]

[wolverenmayden]

When the Earth Remembers Fire

The mountains hold their breath in stone, beneath the sky that dreams in ancient ember light. Old rivers carve their histories with patient hands through memories too deep for sight.

The wind still hums forgotten names that fell like stars from broken lips of gods and kings. And every tree that leans with time remembers death, but still the robin sings.

I walk through fields where silence grew like thorns along the path of truth and sacrifice. My shadow stretches far behind, a creature stitched from ash and bone and ice.

The wolves have left their warnings carved in bark and blood beneath the frozen moon. And something in the soil stirs, a pulse that drums a darker kind of tune.

I am the voice between the wars, the breath held tight before the hammer falls. My name is written in the cracks of temple walls and crumbling city halls.

A single flame can birth a storm if fed by grief too vast for words to hold. And from the ashes, something crawls—not young, not free, not innocent or old.

The sky is not a place of peace, but canvas for the fury of the void. We build our homes in fragile flesh, pretend the stars are not already destroyed.

The world was never ours to own, we only borrow moments made of dust and dream. But still we burn to touch the edge, to break the surface of the silent stream.

So let the storm become my prayer, the firelight my only guiding spark. When all the songs are sung and gone, I’ll walk alone into the final dark.

[wolverenmayden]

The Silence Between Thunderclaps

Beneath the weight of ancient skies, I walk where shadows speak and stars forget to burn. The winds have names no man can know, they whisper truths the silence carefully must learn.

Each footstep echoes through the dust of time where gods once wept and angels turned away. The ground remembers every war, each broken oath, each song the dead forgot to play.

The moon is just a bleeding eye that watches fate unravel thread by thread in vain. I wear the dusk like borrowed skin, and speak in storms that carry other people’s pain.

The trees bend low with secrets kept from kings and killers both who seek their gain. No prayer can reach a god who sleeps with ashes in his mouth and rust along his chain.

I chase the pulse of distant drums, where dawn delays and darkness drinks the coming sun. The fire in my chest is fed by every battle lost, and every fear I run.

What is a soul but shattered glass that still reflects a face through blood and quiet rage? I write my name in breathless wind, a fleeting word across a slowly burning page.

Don’t ask me why the rivers sigh, or why the sky has teeth behind its trembling light. The truth is born in moments when the heart forgets to shield its scars from sight.

I do not seek to be redeemed, nor held by hands that promise peace and never stay. I’d rather walk where thunder sleeps, and carve my path through shadow, bone, and flame-licked clay.

[wolverenmayden]

In the DNA of the Soul: A Monologue on Justice, Freedom, and the Eternal Harmony Within

What makes a life meaningful? What gives a soul its color? What marks one human being as unique in a world of billions?

It is not merely our names or our birthplaces. Not the nations we come from, nor the languages we speak. It is something far deeper, far more ancient. Something encoded not just in our blood, but in our very essence. We are the living echoes of generations past. We carry in us the hopes of our ancestors, the choices they made, the mistakes they never mended, the songs they never finished singing.

We are not accidents. We are not blank pages. We are continuations. We are stories in motion.

From our genes flow not only the color of our eyes or the strength of our bones, but also the subtle inclinations—the sparks of empathy, the shadows of temper, the tremors of fear, the floods of compassion. These are not limitations. They are notes in a great symphony, the DNA of our souls playing out across the instruments of time.

And yet, still, we dare to speak of merit.

Merit? As if we all begin from the same start line? As if justice lives in a vacuum, untouched by history? How can we talk about fairness while ignoring the burdens some carry from birth? Some are born with wings, others with shackles. Some begin their journey surrounded by light, others are plunged into darkness from the first breath. To speak of merit without truth is to speak of shadows without acknowledging the sun.

Justice, true justice, does not measure everyone by the same stick. It listens. It sees. It understands the silent battles, the unseen wars. Justice acknowledges that equality is not sameness—but fairness. It is the sacred art of balancing a world that was never level to begin with. It is the responsibility to lift without condescension and to stand beside without judgment.

We live in a time obsessed with identity—and yet how few truly know themselves.

To know oneself is not to gather labels or titles. It is not found in what we proclaim, but in what we embody. Selfhood is not a flag to wave—it is a home to return to. And that home is built of countless bricks: some placed by our genes, some by our experiences, some by pure choice, and some by destiny itself.

Our individuality is sacred. Our uniqueness, divine.

And yet, our fates are intertwined. We do not live alone. Each breath we take is borrowed from the trees, each step we make leaves a mark on the earth. We are threads in the same tapestry, not separate entities but interconnected expressions of life itself. Every choice we make ripples outward. That is the mystery—and the law—of karma.

Cause and effect. Give and receive. Action and reaction.

It is not punishment. It is precision. The universe remembers. Every intention, every gesture, every silence—it all returns. Not as vengeance, but as reflection. What we offer the world, the world becomes.

And so what of freedom? What does it mean to be free?

True freedom is not the absence of rules, nor the rejection of responsibility. It is the liberation of the soul to be what it was born to be. To live in alignment with its inner truth. Freedom is found not in rebellion, but in resonance—in the courage to live a life that fits the rhythm of our own heart, even when it contradicts the chorus around us.

A free life is one of peace. But peace is not passive. It is not silence, nor stillness. It is balance. It is the harmony that arises when truth is honored, when difference is not only accepted, but celebrated. When no voice must shout to be heard, and no soul must shrink to be safe.

This is the dream: A world where freedom and fairness walk side by side. Where rights come with recognition, and equality is not abstract but embodied. Where everyone has space to be—and to become.

And the earth—this beautiful, breathing miracle beneath our feet—it is not ours to dominate. It is not our property. It is our kin. Our mother. Our mirror. It is time we saw it not as a resource, but as a relationship. It gives without asking. And we take without remembering. But sustainability is not only about how we treat nature—it’s about how we treat ourselves. A soul in turmoil cannot build a peaceful world.

So let us begin where all things begin: the heart.

The heart knows no prejudice. It does not care for status or skin. It speaks the language of rhythm, of sincerity, of compassion. And the soul—it seeks not to conquer, but to connect. It longs not for dominance, but for authenticity. And in that longing lies our salvation.

This life is fleeting, but its echoes are not. What we do today matters tomorrow. Not just in time, but in soul-space. The soul remembers. The planet remembers. Future generations will inherit not just our world, but our choices.

Let us give them more than survival. Let us give them a world infused with dignity. With balance. With truth. With love.

And to do that, we must begin with the self.

Not the surface self. But the deep self. The genetic, generational, eternal self. The self that knows we are both matter and spirit, both science and myth, both flesh and flame.

Let us accept ourselves completely, and by doing so, free others to do the same.

Let us live our truth—not perform it.

Let us seek justice—not just in the courtroom, but in the quiet moments of our day. In the way we listen. The way we forgive. The way we show up.

Let us stop striving for perfection, and instead, seek presence.

Let us stop asking what the world owes us, and start asking what harmony we can offer it.

Because when we find our true selves, we do not become separate. We become connected. And in that connection lies everything:

Truth. Justice. Merit. Freedom. Peace. Wholeness. Belonging. Eternity.

We are not here to conquer time. We are here to become timeless.

And in that becoming, we find not just ourselves— We find the entire world reflected in our soul.

[wolverenmayden]

The Genetic Symphony of Justice: A Monologue on Truth, Freedom, and the Harmony of the Soul

What is truth? What is justice? And how do they echo through our blood, our breath, our very being?

They say the truth sets us free. But truth is not merely a spoken word or an uncovered fact. It is a current—ancient, buried deep within our veins. It pulses through our genetics, carried forward by generations long gone, encoded in our DNA like sacred hymns. And justice, then—true justice—is not simply a balancing of scales. It is the act of recognizing the vast architecture of cause and effect that built each of us, the choices made and unmade by those who came before, and the responsibility we hold for those who come after.

We are not blank slates. We are not empty vessels filled by accident or randomness. We are continuations. Our tendencies, our gifts, our flaws—they are the songs of our ancestors, playing through us. And yet, within this inheritance, there lies immense freedom. Because even as the genes hum their soft chorus, we—unique, conscious, sentient beings—are capable of harmony, of choice, of disruption. We are not enslaved by our biology. We are offered a partnership with it. A dance between fate and will.

Merit. What is it? Is it the cold evaluation of performance, of how much we achieve compared to others? Or is it something more sacred? Is merit the courage to be fully oneself? To accept our limitations and still strive for growth? To understand that being born with less does not mean being worth less. That true worth is not in comparison, but in contribution—authentic, individual contribution.

We must redefine value.

Each soul is a singular constellation—no copy exists. Each fingerprint is a revolution. And yet society persists in its addiction to sameness, to measurement, to artificial hierarchies. We are boxed and ranked, praised or punished, based on systems that rarely account for the invisible battles we fight—those of temperament, trauma, biology, and belief.

Freedom cannot thrive in such a climate.

And yet, freedom is essential. It is not the license to do whatever we want. It is the sacred space to become who we are. To discover our own rhythm. To live in a way that honors both our inner nature and the greater harmony of the world. This is not indulgence—it is necessity. For how can a forest flourish if every tree is forced into the same shape? How can a planet heal when its inhabitants deny their true roots?

Peace—true peace—is not the absence of noise, but the presence of authenticity. Harmony is not silence—it is the beautiful dissonance of diverse voices finding ways to coexist, to complement. The soul finds rest when it is seen, not judged. When it is known, not measured. When it is accepted, not molded.

And this extends beyond the self.

To protect the planet is not just to save a place. It is to honor our shared origin. We are not separate from the earth. Our blood mimics the oceans. Our breath mirrors the wind. When we destroy nature, we destroy our reflection. We fragment the harmony we seek.

But nature, like truth, is patient.

It waits for our return—not with anger, but with hope.

Time is not our enemy. It is our medium. Through time, legacies are born. Through time, karma unfurls. Through time, we see that every action reverberates, echoing into the lives of those we may never meet. Destiny, fate, whatever you choose to call it—it is not a prison. It is a map. We may not choose where we begin, but we can choose how we walk the path, and what we leave behind.

Justice must be more than legality. It must be empathy. Law must be tempered by love. Rights must be coupled with responsibilities. Equality must not mean sameness, but equal sacredness. Equal right to dignity, to voice, to peace. And mutuality—true mutuality—is not transactional. It is spiritual. It is the recognition that we rise or fall together, that your pain affects mine, and your healing contributes to my own.

Let us speak, then, of self-acceptance. Not the shallow kind that stops at the mirror. But the deep, cellular recognition of who we are—flaws, brilliance, contradictions and all. Let us stop running from our shadows and start listening to them. They carry wisdom. They carry stories.

To be self-identified is not arrogance—it is alignment. It is choosing to live without disguise. And when enough people do this, the world changes. Not through violence, not through domination—but through resonance. Like tuning forks that, when aligned, begin to vibrate as one.

We are not here to conquer the world. We are here to care for it. To learn from it. To become worthy ancestors.

Let our legacy be one of balance.

Let our future be one of conscious freedom, compassionate justice, and unshakable peace.

And let the truth—timeless, eternal—be not just something we speak, but something we live.

Every day. Every breath. Every generation. Until the planet sings again.

[wolverenmayden]

Inheritance of Light

We carry more than name and face— A quiet code, a deep-borne trace. In every cell, in every tone, The past and future are our own.

But genes are not the final word, Nor fate a voice that must be heard. What shapes a life is not just birth, But every choice that gives it worth.

Justice walks where truth is clear— No power ruled by greed or fear. It lives where merit lights the way, And each soul has the right to stay.

No one repeats the path behind, We are not echoes, but designed— To differ, dream, to stand apart, To build the world with mind and heart.

Freedom is the sacred breath That lifts us from inherited death. To be, to feel, to choose our way— This is the dawn of every day.

Let peace be more than silence kept, But action where the planet’s wept. Where trees are kin, and soil is song, And balance keeps the weak from wrong.

The soul is old, the heart is wise, Beyond the flesh, beneath the skies. Karma moves through deed and will— The love we plant, the hate we still.

All equal in the spark we hold, No richer blood, no purer gold. True justice sees with open sight— A life’s not ranked by skin or height.

In mutual care we rise, not fall— When "mine" and "yours" dissolve in "all." Through shared respect, the world is healed— In honest hearts, all truth revealed.

Accept yourself as none but you— No copy made, no false made true. To know your soul, to walk your name, Is not just right—it is your flame.

So be the thread, the voice, the key, The change passed down in memory. For what we give, and how we live— Is all the light we truly give.

[wolverenmayden]

The Code of Truth

In every breath, a story lies, Not written in the silent skies, But in the pulse, the hidden thread, Of those before, of tears we’ve shed.

A gene may whisper where we start, But not the fire within the heart. Our traits are tools, not chains that bind— The soul is freer than the mind.

Justice blooms where merit grows, Not where the favored river flows. It asks no crown, no blood, no name— Just equal light, and honest flame.

You are not chance, nor mold, nor scheme, But proof that difference shapes the dream. No copy carved by fate’s demand, But one who walks with open hand.

Let freedom mean a deeper state— To choose, to love, to navigate. To live with peace as daily bread, And harmony in how we tread.

This planet waits with breath held still— Its forests bent to human will. Yet in its roots, a plea remains: Protect, restore, release the chains.

What lasts is not the loud or tall, But hearts that rise when others fall. In balance, truth begins to shine— A justice deep, a law divine.

Karma’s thread is finely spun, A quiet sum of all we’ve done. And what we give returns in kind— Through act, through thought, through state of mind.

Equality is not a prize, But birthright seen through clearer eyes. Where no voice trembles in the shade, And worth is never once delayed.

So know yourself, and dare to be The mirror of integrity. Not perfect—just entirely whole, A sacred, ever-shifting soul.

And in that self, let others see That truth, and peace, and liberty Are not beyond, or born by few— They live, they grow, inside of you.

[wolverenmayden]

The Hymn of Spain

I. Land of Glory, Land of Flame O Spain, thou ancient crown of fire, Thy hills and coasts our hearts inspire, Thy vineyards wide, thy rivers grand, The soul of nations in thy land. Thy fields are sown with dreams and strife, Thy sun bestows the gift of life, From Ebro's flow to Sierra's rise, We see thy splendor fill the skies.

II. Spirit of the Ages Past The echoes of thy ancient days Still wander through the mountain haze. From Roman roads to Moorish art, Each stone still holds a beating heart. Toledo’s swords, Granada’s towers, The Alhambra’s song in midnight hours— All speak of glory, faith, and flame, All whisper thy immortal name.

III. The Strength of Her People Thy people rise in toil and song, Injustice falls, but they stand strong. From Basque-born hills to Cádiz' shore, Their voices rise forevermore. With castanet and banner high, With tear and hope in every eye, They dance, they fight, they work, they pray— Their hearts the dawn of every day.

IV. Crown of the West Thou cradle of explorers bold, Whose sails once shone like molten gold, Columbus steered by Spanish hand To chart the fate of many lands. Yet not in conquest lies thy grace, But in thy proud, enduring face. A realm of poets, saints, and kings, Of painted dreams and angel wings.

V. Prayer for the Future O Spain, beloved, brave, and free, May peace forever dwell in thee. Let justice rule, let kindness grow, Let all thy sons thy glory know. May brotherhood thy borders bind, And wisdom guide the heart and mind. And as the ages pass like rain, Still shine, undying, sovereign Spain.

VI. Final Refrain So raise the song from coast to peak, From Catalan to Galician speak! Let every tongue and every strain Proclaim thee, queen of sun and plain. Forevermore thy name shall ring, While faithful hearts this hymn shall sing. For earth and soul, for pride and pain— We sing thy name, O noble Spain!

[wolverenmayden]

Hymn to Spain

A solemn ode in praise of the Spanish land

I. The Land Eternal O land where golden mornings rise, Beneath Iberian sapphire skies, Where mountains crown the olive plain, And rivers chant thy proud refrain. From snow-kissed Pyrenean height, To Andalusia bathed in light, Thy soil is rich, thy soul is flame, O Spain, we sing thy sacred name!

II. The Flame of History Thy heart has felt the Roman tread, And Moorish stars once lit thy head. Castilian winds, Aragon’s pride, Navarra’s shield, León’s stride. From El Cid’s sword to Isabel’s prayer, Thy past is writ in fire and air. Through pain and glory, loss and gain, Still beats the heart of steadfast Spain!

III. The Soul of the People In village square and coastal song, Thy people brave, thy spirit strong. From harvest hands to poet's voice, In every trial, they rejoice. With flamenco's cry, with bull’s bold run, With joy beneath the Spanish sun, They hold thy truth, through drought and rain— O sovereign soul, eternal Spain!

IV. The Sea and the Crown Thine oceans bore the daring fleets To foreign sands and distant streets. The world was shaped beneath thy sails, Thy courage told in ancient tales. Yet not in conquest is thy grace, But in the light upon thy face. The monarch’s vow, the soldier’s strain, All guard the peace of mother Spain.

V. The Prayer O God of mountain, coast, and flame, Preserve this land in freedom’s name. Let justice reign, let wisdom guide, Let unity in hearts abide. Though storms may gather, shadows fall, May truth and honor conquer all. And let our voices still remain To raise this hymn to thee, O Spain!

[wolverenmayden]

Moonlight in Crimson: Voyage Beneath the Strawberry Sky

Beneath the ripe and glowing dome, Where starlight seeds the dark unknown, The Strawberry Moon began to rise— A blood-red eye in velvet skies. She watched the Earth with tender gleam, Like fruit suspended in a dream. And we, mere sparks in suits of steel, Prepared to leap, to break, to feel.

Our engines roared, the silence tore, We left behind the ocean's shore. No more the birdsong, no more rain— Only the hum of the cosmic vein. Past layered light and shrinking blue, We flew into a rose-hued view. The moon, not white but blushed and bold, Spilled secrets wrapped in stories old.

They call her “Strawberry,” soft and sweet, But power pulses ‘neath her beat. Not made of fruit or earthly dew, But dust that dreams and whispers true. She glowed with fire the poets miss, A lunar forge of silent bliss. And as we neared her glowing face, Time lost its name, and space, its place.

Her surface was not dead nor bare, But kissed by things we could not dare. A garden carved from frozen light, A map of myths in lunar white. We stepped like children on her skin, The weight of wonder deep within. No war, no wires, no static hum— Just hush. Just heartbeats. Just what’s to come.

Around us: stars like watching eyes, Galaxies spinning lullabies. The ship became a hushed cocoon, While Earth grew distant like a tune. But still she pulled us, soft and slow— The moon in red, aglow, aglow. A force that wasn’t gravity, But love of what we dared to see.

We carved our names in frozen crust, Then let them drift and turn to dust. Not for the fame, nor mortal gain, But to remind the stars we came. With strawberry moonlight in our wake, We traced the edge of what could break. We dared to leave, we dared to stay— Suspended in that crimson bay.

And now, when June turns skies to fire, When strawberries ripen, climbing higher— Look up, and know that someone flew Beneath that moon of scarlet hue. For every ship and soul that tries To reach beyond, to question skies, Will find her waiting, soft and high— The Strawberry Moon, in blood and sky.

[wolverenmayden]

Strawberry Moondrift

By the shimmer of June’s ripe celestial tide, Where stardust and sweetness in silence collide, We launch into night, through the velvet unknown, Chasing the pulse of a fruit-scented stone.

In the hush of a meadow where fireflies gleam, A whisper was caught in an astrophage dream— “Beyond the horizon, where old comets sleep, The Strawberry Moon stirs the soul from its deep.”

Beneath her rose shimmer, the Earth felt so near, Yet gravity loosened the chains of our fear. We climbed through the cradle of oxygen’s kiss, Into the void where all edges dismiss.

She hung like a lantern in strawberry gold, A beacon of stories the cosmos had told. Her halo was tinted with syrup and dusk, A lunar illusion in twilight’s soft husk.

We passed the belt where Saturn rings sigh, Sailing on echoes of centuries' cry. The ship hummed a lullaby none had yet sung, While time on our tongues tasted copper and sun.

Nebulae blossomed like strawberries too— Crimson and violet with hydrogen dew. The galaxies bowed as we whispered her name, Moon of June’s longing, untethered by flame.

Our ship carved a ribbon through meteor foam, Drawn by the heartbeat of light-years from home. With strawberries pulsing in radiant streams, We flew through the harvest of gravity's dreams.

On her surface we landed, no craters of grey, But orchards of frost where the moon-berries lay. They glowed with a shimmer not born of this Earth, As if every one held a myth in its birth.

We danced in low silence, our boots barely kissed The soil of silver and strawberry mist. No clocks to confine us, no borders, no time— Just rhythm and radiance, wholly sublime.

Each breath in our suits filled with fragrance unknown— A fruit forged in silence, in lunar alone. We carved into stone with our fingers and flame: "Here humans once followed a strawberry name."

When Earth blinked behind us, a turquoise-blue sigh, We carried her moonlight like tears in the sky. Not broken, but broadened by all we'd explored— A hunger for sweetness in silence restored.

And now, when June rises and strawberries gleam, Some say they still hear us in twilight’s soft dream. For though we returned, our souls often stray, Back to the moon where red shadows still play.

So if you should look up one soft summer night, And see that the moon blushed unusually bright— Know it's the path where our spirits still roam, Through strawberry moondrift, forever from home.

[wolverenmayden]

The Weightless Pilgrimage

An Epic Poem of Earth, Stars, and Time

I. Invocation of the Sky

O whispering stars, attend my call, To speak of those who dared to fall Away from Earth, to reach and roam Beyond the sky, beyond their home. Where silence reigns and time expands, They sailed like seeds through silver sands. No compass held, no tide obeyed, In weightless dreams the brave were laid.

II. Ancestral Fire

Before the thrust of rocket flame, Before the maps bore Heaven’s name, There lived the keepers of the lore— The fire-makers, wise and poor. They watched the moon from earthen stone, They carved their myths from bone and bone. In patterns drawn on temple wall, The stars would speak. The stars would call.

And so began the long pursuit, Through timber, wheel, through clay and flute. Each child who asked, "What lies above?" Was met with fear, and hope, and love. The sky was gods, the sky was fate, Yet still they dreamt beyond the gate. Traditions held the past like flame, But fire must leap to earn its name.

III. Iron Birds and Burning Skies

Then engines came. Then metal screamed. What once was prayer became a dream That turned to steel, to math, to code— And so began the starward road. The Earth, in awe, looked upward still As Saturn V climbed past the hill Of human doubt and whispered, “Go— Beyond the storm, beyond the snow.”

Apollo sang, and Eagle flew, A footprint marked the ancient blue. The flag was placed, the dust was stirred, A ghostly silence left unheard. Yet with that step, we also strayed— What wonders found, what prices paid?

IV. The Garden Below

While eyes were fixed on lunar stone, The Earth began to cry alone. Forests fell like ancient men, Oceans choked with plastic phlegm. The orbit held a mirror bright— A fragile world in cold starlight. Astronauts wept behind their eyes, Seeing home from where the silence lies.

They saw no borders, saw no war, Just drifting life on cosmic shore. They sent back word: “Preserve the land— The soil, the stream, the sacred sand. No world awaits with greener field. Protect the gift we still can shield.”

V. The Weightless Age

Now satellites like insects hum, Around the Earth, a fragile drum. The internet, the endless light— The dark made day, the day made night. Yet in this storm of data-spread, Old songs survive, though nearly dead. The drum still beats in tribal flame, The roots still call us by our name.

In space, the body learns to drift, To live without the planet's gift. No weight to bind, no up or down, No earth to kiss, no seed, no crown. A child born in void may ask: "What is a tree? What is a task?" Can culture bloom in zero-G, Or must it root in memory?

VI. Of Fathers and Daughters, Mothers and Sons

The generations pass like wind, Each leaving marks the next might mend. A child now learns of lunar seas, Of Martian dust, of starborn trees. Yet still they learn of hearth and grain, Of rivers swollen after rain. The ancient songs, though faint and few, Still echo in the circuits too.

They teach of balance, not of war— Of when to close, and when explore. The elder speaks: “Be not too fast— The future must still hold the past. Innovation without root dies, Like fire that fades in oxygen’s lies.”

VII. The Return and the Rise

We travel far, yet yearn to come Back to the place where life is from. The Earth, though scarred, still sings in green— The most alive world ever seen. Let cities float and towers rise, Let wisdom climb as science flies. But never trade the stream, the hill, For lifeless domes and silent will.

For space is not escape from sin— The wars we flee, we bring within. Yet space can teach us: what we lose When forced to build a world we choose.

VIII. Final Orbit

So here we stand—between the stars, With knowledge deep and planet scars. A single world, a single race, Awake within the void of space. May we remember, as we go, That upward dreams must downward grow. And roots must feed the branch and flame, If future lips will speak our name.

O weightless age, O silver sea— What will you make of you and me? May we be stewards, not just kings— And hear the Earth when still she sings.