She buried her prayers where black roots feed,
where even the holy go to bleed.
Pale moon kept watch through a widow’s sky
and gave no answer to the asking why.
She wore her sorrow like winter lace,
silence settled cold upon her face.
They named her cursed. They named her night—
for learning how to outlast the light,
for hands that coaxed both bloom and grave,
for refusing any world that could not save.
Not every altar earns your knees.
Not every god is worth belief.
Some saints are only gilded cages;
dressed in grief wearing angels’ faces.
So she became the thing they feared—
a quiet flame that would not disappear,
a name the old growth chose to keep,
a vow the dead still rise to meet.
No crown of gold, no heaven above—
only raw earth, wild rage, and love.
She spoke to rivers; they answered slow
in the tongue only the drowning know.
She touched the herbs, she named the bones,
and learned that power thrives alone.
Wolves never asked her to be small.
The dark made no demand at all.
She kissed the ash of what they burned
and from that fire—herself—returned.