Zarathustra…

You fled the crowd—

but not me.

You broke your idols—

but not this one.

Suppose I am a woman…

What then?

You came with your questions, your cold, careful flame,

To fasten the fleeting, to finish with name.

But I am no answer your intellect owns—

I am the echo that empties your thrones.

When meaning grew brittle and heavens withdrew,

When silence stood sharper and deeper than you—

I was the tremor beneath your control,

The fracture that opened the floor of your soul.

I am the forest that feeds on your fear,

The nearer I vanish, the more I am near.

You chased me as clarity, polished and bright—

I turned…

and became your night.

Touch me—

I am gone.

Lose me—

I return.

I am Wisdom—

no grip can gather my flame.

I am the shift in the same,

the shame in your claim.

Court me with cunning,

with cadence, with care—

but the moment you trap me

I thin into air.

I am the riddle

that ripens in risk—

I yield to the daring,

not to the brisk.

Your scholars arrived with their scaffolds of proof,

They measured the sky and mistook it for roof.

They caged me in concepts, corrected my breath—

I slipped through their systems

and laughed them to death.

For knowledge is not what the conqueror keeps—

It flickers, it fractures, it wakes and it weeps.

You harden to hold me—you lose me in stone,

You loosen—and suddenly

I am your own.

I mirror your measure, I move as you move,

A thousandfold shifting, no fixed point to prove.

You call it “the truth” with a tightening hand—

I dissolve

what you think you command.

I am Wisdom—

no altar, no final decree.

I am the edge

where you cease to be “you” and are free.

I burn you with beauty,

I break you with sight,

I crown you in question,

then drench you in light.

Name me—and lose me.

Unname me—and see:

I enter the silence

that outlives the “me.”

(I enter the silence

that outlives the “me.”)

You remember…

The gate without answer—

This Moment.

The roads that ran forward

and folded behind—

The serpent that strangled

the root of your mind—

And the cry—

Bite!

That was me!

(Bite!

That was me!)

Not mercy.

Not method.

Not end.

Decision.

I am the instant

that does not forgive delay.

Become who you are—

but dare you descend

Where every beginning

must circle and end?

What does not destroy you—

you polish with pride—

But I am the blade

that cuts what you hide.

I am the abyss

that answers your stare,

The fire that forms

what you choose to bear.

Will you will it again—

this weight, this scar?

Will you bless your becoming

exactly as you are?

(Will you bless your becoming

exactly as you are?)

Bite through the silence.

Bite through the lie.

Bite through the need

to be spared or to sigh.

What grips your throat

is the truth you evade—

Sever it now…

or be slowly unmade.

I am Wisdom—

no shape your desire can sustain.

I am the pleasure

that ripens through pain.

Come with your laughter,

your daring, your art—

But I appear

where you tear yourself apart.

Seek me in danger,

in distance, in will—

For I come to the one

who can stand and be still.

And I love you most,

Zarathustra—

not when you see…

but when you survive what you see and remain free.

I am not taken—

I take.

I am not held—

I break.

I am not known—

I become.

Suppose I am a woman…

What then?

(Suppose I am a woman…

What then?)