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Hearthfire

Hearthfire

Home is not walls or timbered beams,
but the place where hearts remember.
A circle of light upon the floor,
a flame that says: come closer.

Here the fire speaks without words—
it listens more than it commands.
It warms the hands of family,
and softens the long silence of friends.

Laughter learns to rest here.
Tears are permitted to fall.
Stories are laid down like bread,
shared until no one is hungry.

The stranger enters and is not asked why.
The lost arrive and are not told to leave.
Ashes are brushed from weary souls,
and names are spoken gently again.

This is the holy work of the hearth:
to make room, to hold, to endure.
To burn without consuming love,
to glow when the night grows long.

Holy Mother Vestaria tends this fire—
Hestia and Vesta, joined as one.
First flame and final ember,
keeper of the center that never moves.

She does not wander nor wage war,
yet all journeys begin and end with her.
She waits at the threshold of every homecoming,
steadfast as breath, constant as warmth.

In Greece she was called Hestia,
in Rome they named her Vesta—
not two fires, but one eternal presence,
known by many tongues, burning the same.

Her temple holds no idol, only flame,
for she is not separate from the fire itself.
She lives in kitchens and quiet corners,
in shared meals and unspoken grace.

Holy Mother does not judge the cold;
she simply offers warmth.
She does not turn away the broken;
she draws another place at the table.

First to be honored, last to be named—
Vestaria, humble and infinite.
In every home where love is kindled,
in every heart that opens its door,
she is there.

Sit.
You are already home.

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