Transcripts:
What if everything you were taught about your origins was incomplete? What if the story didn't begin with Adam or Atlantis, but with a queen, a dragon queen, who sang the final note of a forgotten world before the tides swallowed her name? Before Egypt carved its gods in stone, before Atlantis rose and fell into legend, there was Leamura, the Earth's original heart.
Not a place, but a vibration. T civilization where the stars taught in dreams and where love wasn't a feeling amid was physics. And at the center of it all was her. The last queen of Lamura didn't rule with armies. She ruled with resonance. She was the keeper of a flame so ancient it remembered the breath of creation.
Her bloodline wasn't passed through genetics. It pulsed through souls, through you, through everyone who ever felt like the world was missing something holy, but couldn't explain why. They don't speak of her in textbooks. You won't find her in religious scripture. But echoes of her still ripple in your bones, in the dragon that appears in your dreams, in the fire you feel when you read between the lines of myth, in the ache for a home you've never seen but somehow still miss. Her story is not history.
It is a map. one you carry inside you and if you stay until the end of this journey you may begin to remember what was never truly forgotten. I am Witko and this is the beginning of your remembrance. They say there was a time when light had a body not metaphorically literally. In the age of Lamura humans weren't just flesh and thought.
They were living symphonies harmonizing with the pulse of the cosmos. Cities hummed in sacred geometry and the air carried more than scent. It carried memory. There were no temples because every step on that land was a prayer. Lamura was not just a place. It was a state of being where your thoughts could shape the wind and your love could heal a mountain.
Back then, spirit wasn't something you sought. It was the air you breathed, the rhythm of your heartbeat. Men and women lived with such balance that emotions were not repressed but revered. They didn't work on themselves. They danced their shadows into light. The Leamuran elders taught their children by singing stars into water, letting celestial maps reflect in the lakes.
In today's world, where people fight for presence and chase purpose like lost coins, Leamura whispers a forgotten secret. You were never separate. The dragon, yes, the dragon was not a beast to be slain, but a force to be honored. It symbolized the raw current of life, the fire in your spine, the breath before a word, the silence before a kiss.
In Lamura, the dragon lived in the mountains and in their bones. It curled around their dreams and stirred their condolini while they slept. To tame the dragon wasn't to dominate it. It was to become its dance partner, moving with the sacred spiral of creation itself. Imagine waking each morning and remembering who you truly are. That's how the Lemuranss lived.
There were no alarm clocks. Their dreams were instructions. If the ocean sang a new frequency, they would gather in circles to listen. If a tree glowed at midnight, they knew a message had arrived. Their lives weren't ruled by logic or fear, but by intuitive knowing, a type of intelligence modern minds are only beginning to rediscover through things like breath work, sound healing, and sematic wisdom.
We think of ancient civilizations as primitive. But in truth, Lamura was light years ahead. Not in technology, but in consciousness. They didn't build empires. They cultivated harmony. Instead of fighting nature, they collaborated with it. Some say their homes floated. Others say they lived within the earth itself. Their walls made of crystal that responded to emotion.
Whatever the details, one thing is clear. Leamura was not a utopia of fantasy, but a memory encoded in ourselves, waiting to be reawakened. The proof is not in ruins, but in us. Every time someone cries at the sight of the ocean, every time a stranger feels like family, that's Leamura remembering itself. It's why we're drawn to the mystical, why some knights feel like they carry ancient stars.
Leamura left no trace on the map, because it was never about maps. It was about vibration. And when you feel like something sacred is missing, it's just the echo of a song that your soul once knew by heart. They weren't born to rule. They were born to remember. The dragon queens of Leamura did not sit on thrones of gold, but upon pillars of sound and fire.
Each one was chosen not by bloodline, but by resonance. They were those who could hear the pulse beneath the earth and echo it through their voices. To the untrained eye, they seemed like priestesses, but to the awakened, they were flame incarnate, the daughters of the living flame, the ones who wo light into form. These women didn't just channel energy.
They became it. Imagine someone who could sing a mountain awake or soothe an earthquake with her heartbeat. That's how tuned they were to the cosmic song. They trained in temples of crystal and water, learning to translate star codes into songs, light into movement, love into structure. Not all survived the training, for to hold the flame meant burning away every illusion.
It was an initiation by fire, and only the most devoted would emerge as a living bridge between the stars and the soil. The dragon flame wasn't just metaphorical. It was an actual current like spiritual electricity that surged through their bodies once they were ready. It burned away ego, doubt, and separation. One moment you were a girl, unsure and wondering.
And then the flame kissed your spine and you knew. You remembered. Your eyes didn't just see. They revealed. Your voice wasn't yours anymore. It was the voice of the cosmos. In that moment, the queen wasn't crowned. She was claimed. These queens did not conquer, they healed. Where there was drought, they called rain. Where the land fractured, they braided energy until harmony returned.
In today's language, they were shamans, oracles, sacred architects. But those words fall short. A true daughter of the flame could walk into a grieving village and awaken joy with a single gesture. She didn't need followers. She was a living portal, and those near her felt their own divinity reignited. Not because she saved them, but because she reminded them.
To be a dragon queen was to carry the memory of union. The union of heaven and earth, spirit and form, masculine and feminine. She held this union in her cells, becoming a lighthouse in times of storm. And here's the mystery. She didn't reign alone. The flame birthed many, each scattered across regions and realms, anchoring sacred frequencies in different parts of the earth.
Their mission wasn't to be remembered by name. It was to ensure the frequency of remembrance never died. Some say they still walk among us, not in robes or temples, but as artists, mothers, healers, and dreamers. You'll know them by their gaze, steady, soft, and ancient. You'll feel it in their touch, a warmth that isn't physical, but soul deep.
They won't tell you who they are. They don't need to. Because when you're near one, you don't remember her. You remember yourself. When the sacred began to shatter, most of them left. Leamura, once a song of unity, had begun to split, not with war, but with forgetting. The balance between the divine feminine and masculine, was unraveling, and the harmony that held the continent together cracked like glass under pressure.
Many beings of light returned to the stars, carrying their wisdom home. But one, only one, chose to remain, not out of fear, but out of fierce love. She stayed not to escape the darkness but to become a lantern inside it. She could have ascended. Her flame was pure. Her initiation complete. The stars themselves opened to receive her.
But the queen felt something deeper calling. Not glory, not salvation, but devotion. She saw the coming tide of amnesia and knew that someone had to remain as anchor. So she stepped down from the temples, walked barefoot into the densest layers of reality, and gave her vow. I will carry the memory even if the world forgets.
And with that, she became the hidden mother. Invisible yet eternal. Her descent wasn't a fall. It was a sacrifice. She wo her light into the DNA of the earth, into stones, rivers, and bones. She encoded her song in the whales, her wisdom in the roots of trees, not as a fairy tale, but as a living blueprint that only the heart could decode.
To this day, when you feel an inexplicable grief while staring at the moon or a sudden swell of love in the middle of chaos, that's her. That's the signal, the echo. The queen is not gone. She's just beneath the surface of things. And she doesn't wear a crown anymore. She wears your face. She lives in those who choose to hold compassion when anger is easier.
In those who walk into brokenness with open arms, not to fix, but to feel. She is the whisper behind acts of invisible kindness, the fire in those who speak truth without needing applause. You'll know her presence when you act not for reward but from remembrance. Because the last queen did not stay to be woripped.
She stayed so you would never feel alone in the dark. This is not mythology. This is memory. And memory has a pulse. It beats in the rhythm of your healing, in the courage to feel deeply, in the softness that refuses to die. The queen left no monument because she became the monument. Not one made of stone but of story.
Stories that pass from soul to soul, dream to dream. Every time someone chooses love over fear, unity over division, she breathes again. She is less a person now and more a frequency, the frequency of sacred remembrance. But she left clues, not in temples, but in us, symbols, sounds, colors, all carrying her signature. waiting to be awakened.
And those who feel her call often don't know why they cry when they hear ancient chants or why they're drawn to dragons and stars. But it's her. She's stirring. And for those who are listening, something ancient is about to rise again. It was never about genetics. The sacred bloodline of the dragon queen was not passed through womb and surname, but through frequency.
It moved like a current, invisible yet undeniable calling certain souls across time and culture. These weren't descendants by blood, but by resonance. Those who felt a stirring when truth was spoken, who cried at the sight of beauty they couldn't explain. They were not chosen by ritual, but by remembering. When the queen's flame touched a heart, that heart became a vessel of her light.
You've met them. Perhaps you are one. The ones who never quite fit in, who questioned early, felt deeply, and carried an ache for something they couldn't name. They are the bridge walkers, the edge dwellers, the ones who heal others just by existing. And no, they don't always know their role. In fact, most of them feel lost before they feel found. But then the signs begin.
Dragon dreams, synchronicities, ancient languages in their mouths during sleep. It starts slow, then it roars. This lineage expresses through action, not appearance. One may be a musician channeling cosmic memory through song. Another may be a therapist who listens like a sacred mirror, a street artist, a midwife, a teacher in a forgotten village who speaks like they're from the stars.
What they all share is not what they do, but the frequency with which they do it. Their presence is activating. Their silence is full. Being around them feels like something inside you remembers how to breathe again. They're not perfect. Far from it. In fact, most of them endure lifetimes of trauma and forgetting before their essence fully blooms.
But that's part of the design. The hidden bloodline had to hide to avoid persecution, distortion, and misuse. The flame was guarded in ordinary bodies living extraordinary inner lives. And when the time came, like now, they would awaken, not with trumpet calls, but with inner earthquakes. They would look around and finally understand.
I was never meant to fit in. I was meant to reignite the flame. The covenant they carry is not written on scrolls. It's etched in their choices. To be kind when it's costly. To speak truth when it trembles. To protect life and even when it hurts. This is the vibration of the queen still alive through them. Each act of sacred integrity is another node in the web she left behind.
And when enough of them remember, the web lights up. A new song begins. And the world starts to change. Not from the outside, but from the soul outwards. And so the queen's lineage is not something to find. It's something to feel. It whispers through intuition, burns in moments of unexplainable courage, sings when you love without condition.
And when enough of these hidden ones awaken, something ancient reclaims the world in silence. And the flame that never died finally rises again. There came a silence so deep it swallowed stars. After Lamura's fall, the earth did not explode. It exhaled. A long, sorrowful breath that scattered memory like ashes on the wind. The sacred feminine, once revered as the living bridge to source, was buried under systems of control, conquest, and calculation.
The queen's presence dimmed, not because she vanished, but because humanity's eyes grew blind to subtle light. The veil descended, not as punishment, but as protection, for the sacred had to hide until we were ready to hold it again. Without her, the world lost its center. Cultures split. The mind rose above the heart.
Power became a game of domination, not illumination. But the queen had foreseen this. Before retreating into the ether, she left echoes, encoded pulses within the Earth's magnetic field, stories in stone, codes in myth. These weren't breadcrumbs. They were time capsules meant to awaken only when the vibration of remembrance returned.
And that's the thing about memory. It never dies. It only waits for the right frequency to unlock it. You can still feel the absence today. The ache in modern souls that success, travel, or even love can't quite soothe. It's not depression, it's disconnection. The forgetting of the mother created a hunger that no external source can feed.
That's why ancient goddesses became monsters in the stories. Why serpents were vilified. Why intuition was feared. The parts of ourselves that reflected her became enemies when they were actually keys. The queen became myth, then metaphor, then mystery, and then she became forgotten. But she never blamed us. The queen understood that forgetting was part of remembering.
Like seeds buried in winter, some truths need the cold to germinate. The veil wasn't a punishment. It was a chrysalis. And within that darkness, millions of souls incarnated, carrying pieces of her within. These souls often struggled with a sense of mission, but no map. They've cried without knowing why, longed for places they've never been, and dreamed in languages they've never learned.
That's not madness. That's memory trying to bloom. Over time, fragments of the queen's essence emerged in myths. Isis mourning, Osiris, the Virgin Mary holding her radiant sorrow, Quan Yin weeping for the world. In every culture, her archetype whispered, disguised, distorted, but present. Even the earth itself groaned with her frequency through volcanoes, storms, and sacred springs.
Those who listened began to remember. A handful at first, then more. And now an entire wave of remembrance begins to rise. This forgetting was necessary, but it was never permanent. The veil is thinning. The whispers grow louder. And somewhere beneath the noise of the world, the mother is stirring once more.
She may have been forgotten by name, but never in essence. Across the vast theater of human history, her face reappeared in a thousand forms, each culture catching a glimpse of the same eternal flame. In Mesopotamia, she coiled in the winged serpents of Inana. In India, she slithered in the wisdom of the Nagas.
In Tibet, she danced in the skies as the fierce and graceful dinis. And in Europe, she wept quietly behind the statues of the black Madonas. the hidden faces of the divine feminine that no doctrine could fully erase. These were not coincidences. They were echoes, symbols with a pulse scattered across the timeline like sacred tattoos on the body of Gia.
The dragon mother encoded herself in myth and metaphor, not to confuse, but to protect. In times when the sacred feminine was hunted, burned, and silenced, she became the dream behind the dream. She wore the cloaks of saints, the wings of angels, the teeth of serpents. And always, always, she guarded the threshold. She was never gone. She simply shapeshifted.
Even now, when you feel drawn to a particular symbol, a snake, a spiral, a chalice. It's not just aesthetic. It's recognition. These are not just artistic choices. They are soul codes. The spiral is her fingerprint, the flame, her breath, the sacred well, her womb. People across centuries built temples over these symbols without fully knowing why, but their bones knew, their dreams knew, and now you do, too.
The archetype of the dragon mother is not locked in the past. It breathes through every artist who paints visions they can't explain. through every mystic who feels at home in multiple traditions. Through every child who speaks of stars with no one having taught them. These are not accidents. They are transmissions. Remnants of a flame that refused to die.
The queen's memory rides the currents of intuition surfacing wherever the human spirit dares to imagine wholeness again. And perhaps the most powerful symbol of all is not in stone or scripture, but in the human heart. That quiet strength, that deep knowing, that unwavering compassion that rises even when the world is cold. That is her.
That is the dragon mother singing through your blood. She is not waiting to return. She is returning in you, in me, in the sacred impulse to create, to protect, to remember. Because even though history tried to bury her, the queen never left. She became the symbols. She became the silence. And now through you, she becomes the voice once more.
They are waking up one by one, not with lightning or fanfare, but with dreams. Strange vivid dreams of oceans that never existed on any map, of temples made of light, of languages their mouths have never spoken, yet feel achingly familiar. These are not fantasies. They are echoes. The Leamuran flame, long dormant, is stirring in the depths of human memory.
And those who carry her spark, the dragon daughters and sons, are beginning to feel it like a hum in their bones, a pressure behind the eyes, a fire in the chest that won't be ignored. This awakening doesn't look like what most expect. It's not about floating or glowing. It's raw, messy, human. It comes through grief that feels ancient, through sudden bursts of joy for no reason, through the collapse of identities that never truly fit.
One day you're working your job, scrolling your phone, and the next you're sobbing in the shower, overwhelmed by a love you can't explain. That's the flame. She doesn't knock. She ignites. And in that burning, something true begins to rise from the ashes. Many of these awakening souls don't even know each other. They're scattered across cities and deserts, forests and highrises.
But they recognize each other by vibration. A glance that lingers, a conversation that feels like deja vu. They're drawn to the same symbols, the dragon, the pearl, the flame, the spiral. They feel called to protect the earth, to heal trauma, to create beauty that speaks to the soul. They are midwives of the new earth, not because they're trying, but because they are.
And make no mistake, the the return of the Leamuran flame is not nostalgic. It is evolutionary. These are not souls longing for a lost paradise. They are here to build the next one. They remember Lemuria not as an escape but as a blueprint, a template of divine harmony that now seeks to reemerge through art, through community, through conscious living.
It's not about recreating the past. It's about translating it into a future rooted in sacred balance. Some of them write poems that sound like spells. Others design eco villages, lead plant medicine journeys, birth children with ancient eyes. And many they're still waking up, still doubting, still stumbling. That's part of it, too.
The flame doesn't demand perfection. It asks for presence, the courage to keep feeling, keep listening, keep remembering. Because each one who awakens becomes a beacon. And as more awaken, the grid lights up, the frequency shifts, and the queen's dream breathes through humanity again. The signs are everywhere now. In the rising of the divine feminine across cultures, in the longing for ancient wisdom, in the breaking of systems that no longer serve, the dragon daughters are not coming.
They're here, and they are remembering not just who they are sin, but why they came. They say she never truly left. She simply stepped into the unseen, waiting for a time when hearts could hold her again. The hidden mother made a promise before Leamura fell. She would return not with thunder or spectacle but through the quiet fire of awakening.
Her prophecy wasn't carved in stone but written in the soul. A sacred pact that one day the earth would be ready to receive the wisdom not through temples but through hearts. And that time is now beginning to unfold. The new earth isn't a place we move to. It's a frequency we remember. It doesn't arrive through external change alone but through the deep inner reconfiguration of consciousness.
The mother doesn't demand transformation. She invites it through softness, compassion, and radical presence. When a person chooses love over judgment, stillness over chaos, truth over comfort. A seed of the new earth is planted. And millions are planting those seeds right now quietly, humbly, powerfully. You can feel her return in moments of sudden clarity.
In the way children speak of the stars. In the way grief transforms into wisdom. In the rise of communities seeking harmony, not hierarchy. These are not trends. They are fulfillments of a prophecy whispered across millennia. The return of the dragon queen not in form but in field.
A wave of remembrance sweeping across the globe. not to separate the awakened from the sleeping, but to gently stir the world into coherence. Her return is not about worship. It is about embodiment. She lives now in the choices we make daily. How we treat the earth, how we honor the feminine, how we speak to our own shadows.
Every moment of integrity, every act of sacred kindness is her flame moving through flesh. Again, the new earth will not be televised, but it will be felt in the small silent revolutions of love that change everything without announcing themselves. And for those who carry her memory, the calling grows stronger. Not to lead with force, but to serve with light.
Not to teach doctrines, but to ignite remembrance. These are the new prophets, not robed in ancient garb, but clothed in humility and laughter, walking through the world as mirrors. The prophecy is clear. When humanity remembers the mother within, the earth will remember itself. And from that place, everything is reborn. The dragon queen does not need to return.
She already has. Through you, through me, through the pulse of a planet remembering how to love again. The ocean did not swallow her. It carried her voice through every drop of your blood. If you've ever felt the fire of something ancient burning in your chest, if you've ever known truths without being taught, wept for a world you've never seen, or longed for a mother you cannot name. You are part of her return.
You are not just remembering the queen. You are the continuation of her light. So the question is no longer is it real. The question is, what will you do with what you've remembered? Will you hide it? Will you doubt it? Or will you walk like she once walked with softness as strength, with love as lore, and with sacred fire in your voice? The earth is not waiting for another hero.
She's waiting for those who remember. Tell me in the comments, what part of you is awakening? What truth have you always carried but never spoken aloud?
