I Am Root. I Am Seed. I Am Tree

Colored pencils and acrylic markers on paper.

8.30x11.50"

Mileva Roumer merge poetry and art. One is seen with the eyes, one felt with the art. A mantra, a sacred ritual of becoming.



Born to Be My Beloved
I am not just arriving
Not merely stepping into light for show,
Not just existing to be seen.
I rise like a feather once coded in mystery,
Torn and scattered,
Now gathered with intention,
With defiance. With grace.

I emerge clothed in courage,
Draped in the echoes of those before me
The elders, the watchers,
The dreamers who never got to speak aloud.
Their voices ripple through my veins,
Their memories wrapped around my bones,
The ache of generations pressed into the palms of my hands.

I carry the madness of a nation,
The quiet rage, the sacred fire.
And the love
oh, the tender, watching love
Of a twenty-something soul
Who saw me before I had form,
Who whispered me into being
In the stillness between heartbeats.

Invisible hands reached out
To wish me luck,
To bless my breath,
To remind every lonely child,
Every soul aching under life's weight,
That solitude is not absence
It is the doorway to remembrance.

We are not empty.
We are treasure troves,
Crystals carved from memory,
Gems shaped in the womb of time.
Within us lie the maps,
The songs, the seeds.
This is where we begin again.

How could I not love myself?
How could I not love the wild earth
That birthed me, held me,
Taught me the rhythm of rivers and ribs?

And now, I understand
Every time we cherish who we are,
We gift that love to the roots and the rain,
To the skies and the soft soil.
It is that love
That coaxes the plants from slumber,
That feeds the sunlit silence.

Inside me now grows a wisdom
Sharp as blades,
Bright as new dawns.
They rise to fight
The colonization of the mind,
To cut through the lies and reclaim
The sacred truths we were never meant to forget.

I do not walk alone.
I am never without guidance.
I am held by the inner world
By the deep drumbeat beneath my ribs.
From within my gut,
From the belly of my being,
Sprout seeds from an ancient tree
A tree that remembers
A time before forgetting.

So I rise.
Not just born,
But chosen.
Not just surviving,
But becoming.
Forever beloved.