✨A poem✨
They severed the feminine from the Earth.
They cut the root and called it power.
They drained her rivers, burned her temples,
and crowned themselves kings of a world they did not birth.
They erased the womb from the scrolls,
bound her stories in silence,
and renamed creation as conquest.
They stripped her altar and sold it for gold.
But we remember.
We remember with our skin, with our scars,
with the aching of our hips that have carried both life and loss.
We feel the hum of roots beneath our bare feet,
the pulse of ancestors rising through cypress and moss.
We hear the songs that were stolen by empire,
the drumbeats buried beneath cathedrals and cotton fields.
We carry the echoes of the midwives, the priestesses,
the healers and rain-dancers
who were branded witches for daring to remember the wild.
They tried to sever us from the Earth—
but we are the Earth.
We are the swamp and the storm.
We are the howl at midnight, the lullaby at dawn.
We are the ones who bleed with the moon
and roar when justice is denied.
We are the women.
We are the rivers, the caves, the blood, the birth, the fire.
We are the ones who rise with the memory still pulsing in our bones.
We are the breath of Sophia made flesh,
wrapped in magnolia and flame.
We are the gospel that bleeds and blooms.
They distorted the scriptures,
rewrote the holy in man’s image—
but we were never lost.
We were just buried like seeds.
And now, we are sprouting with thunder.
We are the original scripture.
We are psalms written in stars,
prayers whispered into the womb,
truths sung by wind through Spanish moss.
They tried to chain us with shame,
but we forged those chains into bracelets
and wore them like trophies.
We are not forgotten.
We have not forgotten.
And now… we return.
Crowned in mud, cloaked in starlight,
with drums in our chests and fire in our throats.
We return—
not as victims,
but as reminders.
We are the ones
they should have never buried.
Because we bloom in dark places.
We birth revolutions in silence.
And we will not be silenced again.