She walks the ridge,
barefoot, bold,
crowned in flame.
Folks says she ain’t born
of woman’s womb or man’s delight.
She rose from the roots, and blood, and thorn,
when old Gods called her in the night.
She hums the tongue the old pines sing
‘fore the cross came to stake its claim.
The men who took, and beat, and lied—
who saved their seed and let them die—
they’ll find her where the women cried,
and wish the Gods had just forgot.
She don’t forgive, she don’t baptize,
she’s got wild justice in her eyes.
With staff and blade,
she carves their names,
for every girl they beat or shamed.
So hide your name,
and keep your breath-
and kiss your saint
if you can.
But reckon this:
she ain’t your death.
She’s the truth you tried to erase.