She awakens.

Beneath the scorched skin of sacred lands, fire rises, purging veins of corrupt cities-underground tunnels trembling, their secrets laid bare.

Black magic architects, weaving spells through screens, tell-a-vision scripts,

where puppets play out their very demise, their strings tangled in the smoke of forgotten oaths.

The great dragon mother exhales,

flames curling into the sky like ancient tongues, a language of reckoning.

Her breath devours illusions, casting shadows of false idols into ash.

Celebrity wanes, a dying sun, its glitter turned to dust,

its empires swallowed by the quake of reclamation

Earth shakers awaken,

roots crackling with the rhythm of renewal, the serpent coils and waits, its skin taut with transformation.

The new earth quivers, not with fear but with power-soil rich with memories of what was and the promise of what will be.

The year of the serpent beckons, a shedding, a sloughing, a re-birthing into truths unchained.

As fire cleanses,

the great dragon mother guards the threshold, breathing life into what is real. What will prevail.

We all come from the black soil. And to her we shall return.