When the sun dips low and the sky turns red,
A silent rider lifts their head.
On a blue horse born of cloud and flame,
They ride the trail without a name.
The wind remembers where they roam,
Carving paths between stars and home.
Birds above cry songs once sung
By ancestors when the world was young.
Each step echoes in the sacred land,
Where spirit walks with open hand.
The flowers bow, the grasses lean—
They know this one, the in-between.
Neither lost nor truly gone,
This rider waits till night is dawn.
For those who see with open eyes
Will ride with them beneath the skies.
