Serin Alar

07/15/2026

The Hidden Stories 💗

The Hidden Stories

Everyone carries something unseen
a winter beneath the ribs,
a name they no longer speak,
a silence shaped like loss.

Some smile beside the fire
while their hearts wander alone.
Some laugh beneath the daylight,
then speak softly to the moon.

The old trees understand this.
Their bark holds every storm,
yet each spring they offer leaves
without asking who remembers.

The river also knows sorrow.
It carries broken branches onward,
never ashamed of its trembling,
never refusing the wounded shore.

So be gentle with each spirit.
You do not know which memory
still follows behind their footsteps,
or which prayer keeps them standing.

We are all sacred stories,
still being spoken by the earth
each carrying grief and beauty,
each searching for the way home.

🎨 Art by Serin Alar
🖊️Poem: Piahn

07/04/2026

“River in Her Veins”

There is a place where water falls like memory,
where stone breaks open into endless prayer.
And she stands there - still as the oldest story,
listening to the earth breathe through her hair.

The waterfall does not fall, it remembers
a red heartbeat of the mountains unseen,
like the life of ancestors moving beneath her skin,
like something ancient, sacred, and clean.

It runs through her not as sorrow, but power,
a river that refuses to forget its name.
Each drop is a voice from the beginning of time,
each current a spark of unbroken flame.

The wind calls her “daughter of balance,”
the cliff holds her like an old lullaby.
And she knows - she is not separate from the falling,
she is the water learning how to fly.

🎨 Art by Serin Alar
🖊️Poem: Piahn

05/02/2026

Roots Woven in Her Hair

Her hair is not only hair
it is a river of remembering,
a dark root threading through time.

Each strand carries a voice,
soft as ash,
strong as the bones beneath the soil.

When the wind moves through her,
it is not wind alone
it is the breath of those before her,
speaking without words.

She bows her head,
and the earth listens.

For her hair has touched the ground
in dreams older than her name,
has drunk from the same dust
where her ancestors sleep.

It grows not from her body,
but from a deeper place
where spirit and soil
are one unbroken circle.

The elders once said:
Do not cut what remembers you.

So she carries it
long, flowing, alive
a living bridge between
what was and what still is.

In its quiet weight
rests the stories of firelight,
the echo of drums,
the footsteps across open plains.

And when she walks,
the past walks with her.

When she kneels,
the roots return to earth.

And when the wind lifts her hair
into the wide, waiting sky

it is not her alone who rises,
but a thousand unseen hands,
reaching back into the light,
whispering:

We are still here.

05/01/2026

“Where She Waits with the Herons”

She stands where the river slows its breath,
where water folds the sky into itself,
and time forgets how to move forward.

Beside her
the herons.

White as quiet prayers,
thin as whispered hopes,
they stand on still legs of patience,
eyes fixed on something unseen,
something arriving
only when the world is ready.

She does not speak.
Neither do they.

But the waiting between them
is not empty
it is full of listening.

The reeds sway like old voices,
telling stories of those
who once stood here too,
feet pressed into the same earth,
hearts heavy with the same
unanswered longing.

She feels them
in the cool breath of the river,
in the trembling surface of the water,
in the ache that blooms quietly
behind her ribs.

The herons do not turn away.
They remain,
as if they know
waiting is a sacred act
not weakness,
but trust.

One bird lifts its wings,
then settles again,
as if reminding her:
not yet.

The moon watches from above,
round and ancient,
holding their silhouettes
like a memory it refuses to release.

And she understands, slowly
that she is not waiting alone.

She is waiting with the river,
with the birds,
with the bones of the land
that have learned
how to endure time without breaking.

So she stays.

Still as prayer,
deep as root,
soft as grief that has become strength.

And in that long, aching stillness
she becomes part of the waiting itself,
a quiet promise
that what is meant to return
will find its way
home.

04/30/2026

“When Raven Brought the Moon”

Before her voice found its shape,
before her name was carried by wind,
the world lay wrapped in endless night
no fire in the sky, no silver path,
only the quiet ache of unseen things.

Raven flew through that darkness,
wings cutting stories into the void,
a trickster, a keeper, a restless spirit
he heard the earth dreaming of light,
and could not bear its longing.

They say the moon was hidden away,
guarded like a sacred breath,
kept from the people, from the rivers,
from the eyes that had forgotten
what it meant to see.

So Raven became shadow within shadow,
slipped between silence and secret,
and when he found the glowing heart of night,
he took it gently - yet without asking
and carried it into the sky.

Now she stands with him,
moon resting upon her brow,
his feathers brushing her breath
and in her eyes lives that same story:
light is not given,
it is remembered. 🌙🪶

04/29/2026

Honey Between Us

04/28/2026

The Night That Kept Her Name

04/27/2026

The White Horse Beneath the Moon

04/26/2026

Moonbeat Between Worlds

04/25/2026

Where the Light Waits