It's Still Life

The Striped One, Who Is Both

This is
the light and dark of it.

You stand in the threshold
where dust meets breath,
where sky calls to you,
you —
who wear the herd’s mark,
light of consciousness
in your serene gaze.

The light sees you.
The light wants you.

Sacred is the pattern
that binds all things,
black stripe of shadow,
white stripe of light,
curves that flow
from wild flank to human cheek

This river of belonging,
no seam,
no other,
only the great herd of being,
a single breathing entity
that walks amongst bodies.

You, the living proof,
the answer;
a presence steady as thunder.

Your crown is not of gold
but of earth,
woven from grasses
that sustain the herd,
fibres of life itself,
a diadem of dignity,
earned not by dominion
but devotion.

At your throat,
dark beads like falling night,
a tale of moments.
They do not weigh you down
but anchor you
to the now,
to the quiet
perfect being.

Even your posture is language
we’ve forgotten to speak —
a grammar of grace,
a syntax of strength
that needs no words.

Know this:
to be strong
is not to stand against the world,
but with it.

Your gaze is distant
not because it is far,
but because it sees
the unity we have forgotten.

The muted light of morning
does not hide it—
it reveals the truth
that is always there,
seldom seen.

The heart remembers the pattern,
the wild connection,
the steady pulse
of belonging.

We carry the dust of the savanna
on our skin,
the whisper
of zebra breath
in our ear—
the quiet peace
of knowing
we belong.