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February 28, 2025
A.I. Generated
I was born under the sun of the Everglades, where the rivers move like silent warriors, and the trees whisper the names of those who came before. I fought not for conquest, but for the right to walk my land without chains. Osceola, warrior of the Seminole, stood unbroken in the face of betrayal, his spirit carved from stone, his strength forged in fire. They came to take what was not theirs, to uproot my people, to silence our voices beneath treaties written in deceit. But I did not bow. My war was not fought with numbers, but with the land itself—the swamps, the rivers, the night, all our allies in the struggle. I struck where they did not expect, fading into the mist before they could grasp the wind. Yet, it was not the blade that bound me—it was the false hand of peace, a lie spoken with a smile. Even in chains, my spirit remained unbroken, my fight carried on by those who still walk the land. I do not rest. My fire still burns in every warrior who stands, every artist who tells my story, every voice that refuses to be silenced.
