I was not shaped for kneeling,
except before the One
who breathed the first secret
into the clay of being.
Do not mistake my silence
for surrender.
Mountains too are silent,
yet the earth trembles beneath them.
You may try to chisel my edges,
to teach my voice the language of quiet,
but the soul placed in me
was written with a wild ink.
I am made of the same breath
that set the galaxies turning,
the same hidden fire
that taught dust how to become life.
Bend me if you must
the reed bends in the wind
yet listen closely:
even the bent reed sings.
For within me walks
the memory of the first dawn,
when the universe whispered Be
and existence answered I am.
And know this truth:
She is a woman.
The doorway through which
the soul first enters the world.
The garden where mercy learns to grow.
The quiet moon that softens the night of men.
In her womb,
time gathers its courage.
In her arms,
the trembling child becomes a king.
Do not think her fragile
the ocean appears gentle
until you learn its depth.
For within her burns
the oldest flame of creation,
a light so ancient
even the stars remember its name.
And those who try to break her
only discover
what every mystic eventually learns:
The fire that births the world
cannot be extinguished
by the hands of the world.