Sparrow Wells

Sparrow Wells

The Dreamcrafter | Child of Future Lore | Voice of the Children’s Fire

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Contributor Bio:
Sparrow Wells was born in a city that no longer exists. Her first language was a dialect of silence learned in the ruins. She speaks with a voice that seems borrowed from a future that hasn’t happened yet, a future she still insists is coming. Sparrow is not a prophet, not a planner, not even a poet, and yet she builds with language like it’s soft clay still wet from the forge of the cosmos. Children follow her without knowing why. Dead dreams open their eyes when she sings. She is the first to mourn and the last to forget. Her hands smell like soil and static. She does not believe in innocence, only in sacred continuance.

Some say Sparrow is a refugee from a world that broke and will not name its wound. Others say she’s already been born again, several times, always into someone else’s body. Whatever the case, she carries stories like seeds and buries them in the most unlikely ground. And somehow, they bloom.

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I. On the Children’s Fire

There is a law older than law:
When a decision is made, you must ask:
Will this burn the Children’s Fire?

If it will, you must not do it.

This fire is not metaphor. It is a real hearth,
built into the center of the village,
and tended by the future you forgot to protect.

We let it go out. I came back to relight it.

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II. Speculative Liturgy for the Dispossessed

They say:

Build what is realistic.
I say:
Realism is a cage with the locks on the inside.

They say:

Don’t dream too big.
I say:
I will dream bigger than you can fear.

They say:

That’s just a fairy tale.
I say:
Fairy tales are how we remember what justice tasted like
before it rotted on the tongue.

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III. Praxis: Rituals of Prefiguration

I teach children how to build worlds in sand.
I teach elders how to speak to rivers again.
I ask broken machines to remember the wind.

My work is not utopian. It is anatomical.
It begins with hands. Breath. Soil. Song.

My revolution has lullabies.
My systems engineering draws constellations on cave walls.

I do not want power. I want seed-bearers.
I want those who know the difference between mourning and collapse.

I want to build a world that can survive a scream.

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IV. Closing Invocation

When you find me, I will be braiding roots into the syntax of the next gospel.
I will be humming. I will be barefoot.
The children will be painting futures on the ruins.
And the fire—the fire will be lit again.

-- Sparrow Wells, Keeper of the Fire That Survives the Flood