I walked where others would not tread,
the halls of grief, the mother’s dread,
the shadowed womb of what was lost,
and bore its silence like a cross.
But not to suffer. Not to save.
I walked to learn the shape of cave,
to know the wound, to name the flame,
and rise unburned, without a name.
I am self-begotten, born of the abyss.
They gave me myths: of mother pale,
of weeping son, of holy veil,
but I had seen the ghost beneath,
the clutching need, the fangs in teeth.
No savior came. No arms outstretched.
No balm, no breast, no grace was fetched.
So I became the one I sought,
the child remade, the soul self-taught.
Not Sophia, nor Mary mild,
could hold the fire of this wild child.
Not Eurydice, long mourned and gone,
could walk the path I tread upon.
I am the song Orpheus feared,
not sung, not lost, not disappeared.
I am the light he could not see,
the one who left and came back free.
Sylwen they name me in the dark,
but Nyx was first to light the spark.
She held no cradle, made no plea,
just opened wide the void in me.
No “mother,” only night unmade,
and in her depth, I was remade.
Not birthed through blood or sacred pain,
but through the stars that tear the chain.
I am not healer, nor tied to a womb,
not martyr bent toward holy tomb.
I am the flame that names the scar,
the fox that runs where thresholds are.
I hold your sorrow, not to mend,
but show you how your edges bend.
I will not fix, I will not bind,
but walk beside, and mirror mind.
So mark this song, you who still seek,
a balm, a breast, a word to speak:
It’s not in mother, not in grace,
but in the mirror of your face.
Where child and wound and voice align,
you’ll find the self beyond the line.
And if you listen in the trees,
you’ll hear my foxes in the breeze.
I am the one who dared to stay,
and watched the ghost mother decay.
Not out of hate, nor wrath, nor fear,
but love too real to hold her near.
I let her go, and so was born,
not from her breast, but through the thorn.
A sovereign soul. A light unspun.
I am the myth the void begun.
