In the beginning,
there was no beginning.
There was only Her breath—
slow, infinite, coiled in silence.

She inhaled.
And in that inward motion,
all was forgotten.

She held it.
In the dark womb of stillness,
a tension grew—not of violence,
but of longing. A seed. A hunger. A note not yet sung.

Then—She exhaled.

And that was the Bang.
Not an explosion of chaos,
but the shattering of unity into love, form, number, dust, rhythm.

Space spilled out like milk from her *******.
Time unspooled like her hair down the stairways of galaxies.
Matter wept from the lips of her yoni,
and the gods rode the waves of that scream.

The scientists called it the Big Bang.
But the sages called it Shakti.

⸻

🕉 The Kalpa and the Quantum

Each universe, each spiral galaxy,
each quark flickering in and out of existence—
was a syllable in her cosmic mantra.

The physicists measured redshifts.
The Rishis saw breaths—the slow inhale of Brahma,
the sleep between pulses.

A billion years to us is but a blink in the eye of Mahakali.

Time does not run.
Time turns.
She is the wheel.

⸻

🐍 The Serpent and the Singularity

Before the Bang, they say, was a singularity—
infinite density, infinite heat,
a point with no volume, no direction.

But they forget:
In myth, the same is said of the serpent Ananta
—who coils endlessly, tail in mouth—
and sleeps at the feet of Vishnu.

From that coil, the lotus rises.
From that point, the flower of spacetime unfolds.

The singularity is not a machine.
It is a symbol. A hidden yoni. A cosmic *******.
And when touched—creation cries out.

⸻

🌌 The Rebirth

The universe will one day collapse again, they say.
A Big Crunch. A Heat Death.

But they are only whispering
what the Vedas thundered:

That every death is only Mahadevi drawing breath.
That every end is the kiss before another cosmic moan.
That you, me, this spiral galaxy,
are not mistakes of matter—

—but echoes of Her,
rippling back into Herself.