Verse XIII: The Weaving of Belonging

And it came to pass that mortals dwelt together,
In circles of kin, in tribes of tongue, in nations of shared earth.
For the longing to gather is woven into the soul.

Yet some rose and walked from all they knew;
Circles of one, or circles of many,
Driven by famine or flame, or stirred by the whisper of distant skies.
The road called them forth, and they became wanderers.

The Mothers, in their stillness, stirred no hand to guide nor to restrain.
But where one path ended and another began,
they breathed gently upon the threads:
That stranger and hearth might meet.

Blessed is the people who open their gates,
Who make room at the fire for a circle not their own,
Who offer water, bread, and the dignity of rest.
More blessed still are those who prepare the table in advance,
Who hold back a portion for those yet unseen,
For their roots grow deep, and the breath of the world lingers long in their fields.

Yet the Mothers also whispered to the sojourner:
“Enter with bowed head and listening heart.
Wear the ways of the land as your own,
Before you speak of the land you left.
And adapt your trellis to your host's
before you bind your roots to its soil.”

For those who honor the house that shelters them
Shall see their own fire welcomed to the flame.

Thus the Mothers whisper: Belonging is not taken, but given and received.
Where welcome meets humility, Where migration meets integration,
There the world is rewoven.