The earth remembers its first footsteps—
soft impressions of moccasins,
bare soles kissing soil with reverence,
a dialogue unbroken between skin and stone.

The rivers carry stories in their curves,
not veins of commerce,
but whispers of ancestors whose prayers
grew wings in the mist of every dawn.

Forests do not stretch their arms to timber;
they cradle the unseen,
their shadows a sanctuary,
their roots tangled with secrets
older than any map can claim.

Mountains rise not as borders
but as keepers of sky-reaching truths—
their spines bending only for
the songs carved by first hands
on the cliffs of memory.

Who owns the wind
that braids through a child’s hair?
Who owns the rain
that baptizes her face?

First rights are not written
on parchment or stone;
they are etched in the pulse of the land,
in the fire that refuses to forget.

This earth, borrowed from tomorrow,
was never a prize to conquer
but a promise to uphold—
to the ones who first called it home,
whose spirits remain
woven into its breath.