1-of-1 Original Artworks by ArtByAncient
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Where Lillies Grow in Silence
She says nothing
and yet the air bends softly around her.
Not from fear,but from the quiet knowledge
that something eternal resides beneath her stillness.
The lilies bloom where her thoughts begin,
white flames whispering secrets
no garden dares to keep.
She wears them not as ornaments,
but as quiet sentinels, each one guarding a lesson she no longer needs to speak aloud.
Her skin holds the night
not because it cannot hold the sun,
but because stars prefer the velvet of depth
to the vanity of brightness.
Eyes closed, yet everything moves when she breathes.
Mountains bow without sound,
and waters part, not from command,
but from the memory of her presence.
Power does not always arrive with a trumpet.
Sometimes, it wears petals.
Sometimes, it listens longer than it speaks.
Sometimes, it waits
knowing time always bends to the patient.
She is not asleep.
She is becoming.
And those who understand
will never ask her to explain.
The Garden We Forgot
She wandered where the roots still speak,
Where time lies buried, soft and deep,
Through tangled green and golden mist—
A breath, a hush, a sunlit kiss.
The trees all bowed to let her pass,
Their fruit aglow like molten glass.
The flowers hummed ancestral songs,
Where every petal knew she belonged.
A lion watched with patient grace,
A bear stood still, a guarding face.
Bright parrots called from skies above,
And whispered truths in tongues of love.
Her steps were light, but every tread
Stirred echoes that the roots had kept—
Old songs of those who came before,
Now woven deep in vine and floor.
This is the place we left behind,
Where spirit walks with open mind.
A sacred land, not gone, just veiled—
Still blooming where our stories sailed.
So when the silence calls your name,
And wild things do not seem so strange,
Return barefoot, heart unlocked…
And find The Garden We Forgot.
Whispers Toward the Infinite
She walks the path the stars once drew,
In robes of sky and feathered hue,
A hush beneath the cosmos wide,
Where destiny and dreams collide.
The winds don’t howl, they gently sing,
Of sacred vows and souls that wing,
Each step a prayer, each breath a flame,
A heart unbound, without a name.
The spiral sky above her turns,
A wheel of time that softly burns,
And through the veil of night and light,
She carries truth into the night.
Her robe — a whisper of the sea,
Of all she was and yet will be,
A sentinel of grace and storm,
Of silence taking sacred form.
No need for maps, no need for speech,
She walks the edge where spirits reach,
Where fate’s horizon bends and bends —
To meet herself, where all things end.
Blue Flame Covenant
In fields of mist where silence sings,
Two souls kneel close with folded wings.
Their eyes are closed, yet hearts wide bare—
A vow exchanged in sacred air.
A flame between, not forged in fire,
But born of soul and deep desire.
It dances blue, a living breath,
A covenant that conquers death.
Below, a slab—stone shaped like heart,
Where all their lifetimes play a part.
Above, the stars in glyphs align,
To mark the merging of divine.
Blue phoenix wings in hush take flight,
echoes bow in reverent light.
Their past selves rise, dissolve, ascend—
As present tense begins to mend.
They speak no words, but still they swear,
Through pulse of flame and moonlit prayer,
To guard this bond, to love through trial—
A sacred pact, eternal, wild.
And though the fog may veil the land,
Their spirits glow, hand reaching hand.
For in that heart of burning blue,
A timeless truth is born anew.
Yemaya’s Womb
In the hush of the ocean’s ancient breath,
She floats between life and the stars of death.
A mother, crowned in midnight tide,
With galaxies blooming deep inside.
The sea bends softly to her form,
Cradling her in waters warm.
Fish like lanterns drift and glide,
Drawn to the pulse of worlds inside.
Her belly, round as moon or sun,
Spins stardust where life’s thread is spun.
A spiral cradle, calm and wide—
The cosmos resting just inside.
She is the gate, the sacred shell,
Where ocean songs and futures dwell.
Yemaya dreams with eyes shut tight,
While heaven stirs in salted light.
O divine womb, vast and true,
You birth both tide and sky-blue hue.
May every child of water and flame
Rise knowing from where their spirit came.
Daughter Of The Green Silence
In gardens where the shadows hum,
She blooms beneath the twilight drum,
Her roots entwined with whispered grace,
A universe upon her face.
The stars have traced her olive crown,
Each leaf, each blossom woven down,
Through tangled reeds her spirit weaves,
A song that shivers through the leaves.
Her eyes are closed, yet worlds ignite,
Behind those lids of painted night,
The earth has kissed her quiet skin,
And set the wildness deep within.
She is the breath of moss and flame,
A flower never bound by name,
The jungle bends to hear her sigh,
The heavens blossom where she lies.
Smoke of Our Blood
Around the flame, they gather low,
Where silence speaks and embers glow.
Their hands extend, their voices hum,
Calling to the ones who’ve come.
In veils of smoke, the faces rise—
Ancient eyes in midnight skies.
Some are weeping, some are wide,
All are watching, arms stretched wide.
The women chant with breath and bone,
Though standing here, they’re not alone.
The fire feeds the sacred thread
That binds the living to the dead.
This is not grief—this is grace,
A meeting in the timeless space
Where strength is whispered, tears ignite,
And memory becomes the light.
So dance they do, with solemn pace,
Each gesture holds a warm embrace.
Their offerings are more than flame—
They call each ancestor by name.
She Rests Where the Earth Remembers
She does not hide
she returns.
To the softness that held her
before the world learned her name.
No noise, no mask, no performance
just breath,
and the whisper of leaves
offering grace without question.
This is not sleep
this is sacred alignment.
Where the forest bends to listen,
and the roots hum her silence.
She leans into the green
like it’s memory,
like it knows her truest shape.
Here, she is not seen
she is known.
Crowned in gold that mimics vine,
robed in pattern, clothed in time
she is both seed and bloom,
both prayer and proof.
Let them call it stillness.
Let them think she’s paused.
But the earth knows better
She is charging in the arms
of the cause.
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