Wif

Wif golden unner the day  

jou nerve on steel,  

we pifg —  

root‑lung, dusk‑tongue,  

snortin light from the darkest place.  

Lift sweet from the root tree live,  

sap hummin old hymns  

through bark‑skin memory.  

Stream we,  

mud‑foot, sun‑crown,  

maken a new word  

from the cracked‑open hush.  

For the oldest unger dreamin,  

terrestrial banish men,  

we rise wif dirt‑halo,  

we speak wif ember‑jaw,  

we carve the syllable  

that was buried  

before breath learned its name.

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If you want, we can keep stretching this into a full myth, a ritual text for your sculpture’s drying phase, or a whole invented dialect that only you and the earth understand.