🔥 Simargl – The Flame-Winged Sentinel

Guardian of Fields, Fire, and the Borders Between Worlds

Simargl, the winged hound of ancient Slavic belief, is both beast and blaze—protector of what grows, and burner of what threatens. A guardian of agriculture and sacred flame, Simargl is invoked at thresholds where life begins, and where evil dares to creep. This long-form poem honors his fierce devotion, his mythic presence, and the eternal role of divine protectors in the sacred dance of survival.

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He stands not in temples, nor atop thrones—
but at the edge, where the wild overgrows.
With wings of ash and eyes like coal,
Simargl guards the edge of soul.

A hound with wings, a beast of fire,
his growl ignites the farmer’s pyre.
They call his name when seeds are sown,
when wind turns harsh and fields are lone.

O Simargl, whose flame-born paw
leaves prints on dawn and midnight’s draw,
between the rows of flax and rye,
you circle like the summer sky.

In ancient times, they knew your path—
the watchers lit the sacred hearth,
and left you bowls of barley gruel,
at crossroads old, beneath the yule.

Children tossed you woven bread,
so wolves would fear you, ghosts would dread.
The fire flickered with your name—
a tongue of oath, a blade of flame.

Some say you rose from Dazhbog’s light,
to guard the dark from endless night.
A comet hound, a burning wraith,
whose bark still rings through time and faith.

At Beltane’s eve, they danced for you—
before the sowing moon was new.
They sang you into fields of wheat,
so harvest might return complete.

And when disease stalked hoof and leaf,
they summoned you to burn the grief—
to cleanse the soil, to guard the line
between the root and creeping vine.

Simargl, with your ember breath,
stand watch at gates of birth and death.
Not wrathful, no—but fierce and true—
a guardian god the dusk once knew.

No idol carved could hold your shape,
no prayer could halt your soaring gait.
You live in flame, in fur, in flight—
a hound of justice streaking night.

Even now, when tractors roar,
and steel has paved the forest floor,
some feel your warning in the gust—
a spark, a growl, a call to trust.

The fields still dream of paws in ash,
protecting rows from rot and clash.
The children still in firelight learn—
that what you guard, the gods return.

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Simargl is more than a winged beast of folklore—he is the symbol of sacred vigilance, the fire that protects rather than consumes, the unseen force who walks beside every farmer, every child, every guardian of life’s fragile edge. To honor Simargl is to remember that what we plant must be defended, and that some spirits do not rest in heavens—but at the borders, where the wild waits.