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A Prophetic Tale of the Awakening of the Land

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In the early dawn, when the mist clung close to the shoulders of the mountains,
And the cries of the black cockatoos echoed like ancient trumpets,
She stood.  Cloaked in linen, crowned with stars unseen,
Lady Saffire BoVardia,
Anointed keeper of the holy breath.

From the Headwaters, where the rivers are born
And the Spirit hovers like a great eagle over the waters,
She called upon the Holy Fire
with love fierce enough to split the sky.

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“This is the hour,” she whispered to the land.
“This is the hour when the sleeping ones must wake.”

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She broadcast from the mountain top
With a voice the world had long silenced
A voice filled with tears and fire,
Carrying the burden of generations
Who cried for justice, for truth, for home.

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“To all who can hear me,” she said,
“Guard your hearts now with all diligence
For within them lie the living springs,
And from them, the new world will flow.”

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From the Great Dividing Range, the land of angels they say,
To the far reaches of the Promised Land below
Where red soil remembers every footstep of every tribe
Her voice travelled
Like wind through casuarina,
Like light through cracked stone.

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She spoke of a battle.
Not one of guns or politics,
But a spiritual war
Waged in minds, in media, in hearts.
A battle for the children.
For the soul of the Earth.
For the memory of Eden.

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“God wins,” she declared,
Her voice trembling not with fear, but fire.

“This story ends in glory
But first, you must remember Him & Her who walk the heart’s way.”

Yeshua and she, Mary, his beloved.  Christed also.
Not the image sold by empire,
Not the chained Christ of colonisation
But the Living Flame,
The Healer of the soul,
The One who weeps with the poor
And laughs with the wildflowers.

“They will return, They are here already some say ,
Do not wait for clouds.  Become the cloud that carries Them.”

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And so she called to the remnant,
To the broken and brave,
To the elders and the youth,
To the women with wombs of prophecy,
And the men who remembered how to weep.

“Gather now,” she said,
“In honeycomb communities
Small, strong, sweet with truth.
Circles of light,
Altars of song,
Fires of remembrance.”

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The people began to hear.
At first, one by one
Then two, then tribes, then towns.
They unplugged the lie,
Turned off the machine,
And sat once more
In circles on the earth.

They passed bread.
They told stories.
They healed.
They protected the children like sacred scrolls
Wrapped in cedar and prayer.

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And as they lived this way
Not perfect, but present
The Holy Spirit she called upon
Began to rise up
Through roots and rivers,
Through language and lullaby.

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Lady Saffire walked among them,
Sometimes seen, sometimes only felt
Like the warmth of a flame you cannot see but know is there,
Keeping watch through the long night.

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And the land remembered.
And the people remembered.
And the silenced voice became a new song.

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All Glory to God.