Belly of stone, I call thee near--
Ye who bore us into form and fear.
From your flesh we were made, not as kings--
But as keepers of cradles and ruinous things.
Your hands once guided the shaping of bone,
We built and we toiled, and called it our own.
But the face you withheld, faceless and wise,
Speaks in the hush behind all of our cries.
It was not in vain-- We forged, we spun--
But the threads grow tight, and the loom is done.
O heavy-thighed keeper of sovereign womb,
You press us gently back to the tomb.
Not to die, but to rest.
Not to rule, but to bless.
Not to rise above, but return below--
To the place we forgot, where all things grow.
So let this be known, through flesh and breath:
That what we mistook for dominion was debt.
And the debt is paid. And the work is done.
And the silence shall speak when the speaking is gone.
By belly, by hand, by silence and stone--
We unmake the crown and come back home.
Call her by bone.
Call her by breath.
Call her by what you forgot you are.
Call her by bone.
Call her by breath.
Call her by what you forgot you are.
We return.
We return.
We return.
Her belly says:
Ye have been born here by my flesh.
Her hands say:
Ye have crafted life’s structure, ye best.
Her face says nothing—
And still, not done in vain.
Her thighs say heavy:
This is not your domain.
Her silence says:
To rule was a weight.
Lay it down.
Now, ye fleshbound children--
Rest.
We return.
We return.
We return.
Call her by bone.
Call her by breath.
Call her by what you forgot you are.
We return.
We unbuild the tower.
We unname the god.
We break the staff.
We drop the crown.
We kneel to the loam.
We return.
We remember.
We rest.