They say the Eagle was carved from the first breath of the world — not by hands, but by the will of the Spirit.
When silence fell heavy on the hearts of the people, and stories faded like footprints in the snow, the Eagle rose — not from the earth, but from remembrance.
Its wings do not slice the sky — they mend it. Each beat repairs what was broken: forgotten names, unspoken prayers, songs left unfinished.
Every feather is a thread of memory, woven from tears, ash, and the laughter of ancestors.
It does not come to save.
It comes to remind.
And when it flies above your path, know this:
You are not lost.
You are only being called back — to who you were,
Before the world told you to forget.
