This is the sixth piece from my „Recycled Souls” series . 
She stands in silence, rounded and dark, a body shaped not by anatomy but by gravity, by the slow remembering of earth. Her black surface absorbs light rather than reflecting it, as if the world were drawn inward toward her. She is not sculpted to be looked at quickly. She asks for time. At the front of her body opens a small golden cavity — a wound, a sanctuary, a womb. Inside rests a single red bean, fragile and defiant, glowing like a seed of blood or breath. It is the smallest possible life, held at the very center, neither hidden nor offered, but simply kept. The gold does not decorate; it protects. It marks the place where something essential survives. 
Around her neck, an ornate beaded collar gathers weight and ritual. It recalls both regalia and burden — adornment that has been earned, not chosen. From her shoulders, black feathered forms unfold on either side, dense and watchful, echoing the wings of ravens. They do not lift her; they guard her. These wings belong to a creature that knows death and carries memory, not flight. 
Her head is veiled in black lace, a soft barrier between the world and her gaze. The lace suggests mourning and intimacy at once, concealment without erasure. Beneath it, her face emerges pale, almost spectral — white against the darkness of her body. Her eyes are grey, shadowed, inward-looking, touched with a faint glimmer of gold, as if light has not left her entirely, only retreated deeper. She does not look at us; she looks through time. 
Her mouth is black and painfully creased, folded inward by grief that has long outlived its scream. This is not the open mouth of lament but the tightened mouth of endurance. She does not cry out. She holds. 
Lupita is not an image of consolation. She is an image of survival. She carries sorrow without dramatizing it, power without spectacle. Her body does not promise redemption; it testifies to persistence. The red seed inside her is not a symbol of hope in the abstract — it is hope under pressure, compressed, waiting. She is maternal without sentimentality, sacred without innocence. A Mother for a time that understands the cost of holding life in a broken world. She does not shine. She remains.