“She Who Walks Between Worlds”

You were not born in the margins—
you were carved from constellations
that remembered the songs
before the earth had a name.

Daughter of the river and the rebel,
your spirit speaks two languages:
one the trees understand,
and one that dances in neon.

You carry the fire of women
who prayed in silence
and bled for freedom—
and still, you laugh like moonlight
spilling through a cracked window,
tender, wild, whole.

You are both altar and flame,
temple and thunder,
soft as cedar smoke,
sharp as obsidian truth.

When the world says,
“Choose a side,”
you unfold your arms like wings
and answer:
“I am the bridge.
I am both. I am all.”

You are the hymn of the unheard,
the step between galaxies,
the beat that refuses to die.

You are not becoming.
You are.