Beneath velvet skies and crimson sun,
Where roots run deep and rivers run,
A flame was born — not to consume,
But to awaken life from winter's womb.
A single drop, a whispered spark,
Stirs slumbering blood from cold and dark.
It dances gently through each vein,
With fire that heals instead of pain.
No blaze of harm, no burn of ire,
But sacred warmth, a sacred fire.
A guardian of heart and flow,
Of breath, of heat, of inner glow.
In glass it waits, so bold, so pure,
A tincture made to wake and cure.
Not chaos, but a sacred flame—
The ember within. Cayenne by name.
