The Good God’s Lament

 In the silence before stars were born,

She sang —

a song so pure, it wove light into being.

But shadows, hungry and jealous,

wrenched the song from her throat

and cast her into a world of dust and hunger.

Now, she waits —

buried in the breathing earth,

in the sorrow of children,

in the last sigh of the fallen tree.

Not in temples.

Not in scrolls.

Not in the gold-plated tongues of kings.

She waits in the few —

those who carry a hidden ember,

those whose hearts ache without knowing why,

those who remember without memory.

She does not call for armies.

She does not call for monuments.

She calls for one thing:

Remember me.

Choose me over power.

Choose love over fear.

Choose light when it costs everything.

When enough awaken,

not by might,

but by the soft explosion of spirit —

then her prison will crack,

then the Evil God’s empire will crumble

like paper in the rain.

And She — the True Mother —

will rise from the ashes,

not to conquer,

but to heal.