The Crimson Shaman

On a field of burning red he stands tall,
feathered crown reaching beyond the wall.
A teal face, calm amid the storm,
ancient and ageless, neither cold nor warm.
One arm sweeps like a dark wing in flight,
a reaching hand emerges from the right.
Between them – a world of signs and keys,
a capital T like a cross in the breeze.
JTE, NO, UO, JO –
fragments of a tongue only the threads know.
Arrows and diamonds, a star, a home,
a shaman’s altar carved in cloth and chrome.
At his feet, blue boots stamped with a vow –
JOTE, JOTE – an oath renewed now.
Kites drift like souls seeking their place,
a sun blooms quietly, soft in its grace.
The red does not rage – it remembers, it holds,
every symbol a story, every knot a world untold.
Woven in fire, stitched in sacred breath –
this is not a rug. This is life after death.

Object number

092.099.90