He moves beneath it, teaching us that strength is not avoiding the storm, but standing tall inside its roar.
The elders say he carries the spirit of brave journeys,
reminding us that healing is not always soft — sometimes, it is fierce, born from the courage to endure.
His breath is heavy with memory — not of easy paths, but of trials survived.
His eyes do not seek shelter — they look forward, trusting the clearing will come.
He never turns away. The keeper of perseverance walks straight ahead.
But where he passes, storms grow quiet, and souls remember —
sometimes, healing is walking into the storm and finding yourself on the other side.
They call him Takán — The One Who Stands Where Others Turn Away. Guardian of Sacred Promises"
They say the buffalo does not speak often — he speaks when silence forgets.
He comes when respect fades, when the land grows tired of giving without thanks.
His hooves do not rush — they mark the earth with remembrance, every step a vow whispered back to the winds.
He does not demand offerings.
He stands as a bridge — between sky and soil, between what is taken and what must be returned.
The elders say he carries the memory of ancient agreements,
reminding us that we walk borrowed paths, and every gift requires gratitude.
His breath rises like smoke — prayers carried to ancestors watching from the unseen.
His eyes hold not anger, but expectation — that we will remember our part in the circle.
He does not linger. The keeper of sacred ties walks onward, trusting the wise will follow.
But where he moves, the land hums softly, and hearts awaken —
sometimes, healing is remembering the promises we were never meant to break.
They call him Makwéyo — The One Who Reminds the Earth of Us.
