Spirit of the Dying Sun

Spirit of the Dying Sun It stands - unmoving, like a spell pressed into the earth. Antlers stretch like ancient branches, cradling the burning sun behind. Not a deer but the memory of forests, the whispered prayer of ancestors, the heartbeat of stone. That red glow not just sunset, but a wound from a thousand years, a fire from a dream that never died. Its eyes not looking at us, but through us, toward the spirits still walking in the wind of forgotten seasons. 🎨 Serin Alar 🖊Poem: Piahn