Daughter of Jacob,
Who was it that dragged you to the underworld,
And forced you eat the pomegranate seed?
Seed of a thousand stillborn tomorrows,
Emblem of your silent bondage,
Red with the fire of regeneration,
Bursting with the fullness of life and the
Torrential murmur of
Encroaching, eternal Void.
Was it the One who let Orion
Loosen his belt, devour your seven sisters and
Turn your protectors into captors?
Sister of Joseph,
What invisible hand bound you with the
Rusted chains of mistrust and indifference?
Chains linked to Father sky by the tragedy of birth,
Forever judged by that all-seeing eye which penetrates and
Dominates but never understands,
Who yearns to create, to clot, to nurture,
But can only watch, absent and blue with disapproving rage.
Was it the One who called you vain for embracing
Your reflection in the abysmal waters and
Declared your purity the source of his newfound power?
Mother of the Living,
Were the mists of Avalon blown
Crimson by the shadow of your shifting, original Self as you
Gathered the winds to honor the mysteries of Demeter?
These Eleusinian gusts of passion, breath and bodies
in motion which filled
The Holier Grail with sacred wine,
The blood of maiden martyrs, and
Gushed from the fountain of a
Forgotten, severed truth.
Grandmother of the gods,
Your tent sits outside of the city.
The color of fire. Of change. Of madness.
Inside, the contours reveal origins.
Scorn transformed, now blooms acceptance.
Identification the currency. Wisdom the reward.
A beacon of hope in a desert of parched oppression.
First time on the outside, Sky calls for more suspicion,
Earth responds with shattering, blissful silence.
What was meant to separate has brought together.
What was pushed down has come back up.
What was bleached white has been reborn in the ripened
red flesh of her cosmic emergence.