From empires to paradise.

And I saw Her –
not as a maiden in waiting,
not as a wounded girl,
but as the river who had remembered its source.
She rose not in fire and fury,
but in rhythm and root.
No longer demanding to be seen –
but so wholly holy present
that the world could not longer look away.

She had gathered her fragments from a thousand betrayals,
held them like seeds,
and planted them in the dark soil of her own body
until they sprouted wisdom,
not war.

Until they grew into wildflowers,
not willow fences.

Her power was not louder,
but fuller and deeper.
She moved with tides that knew when to open
and when to withhold.
She spoke not to convince,
but to remind.

And the Healed Masculine –
not the armored one,
not the performer –
but the grounded, listening one –
felt Her rise like morning mist over still water.

He did not try to fix Her.
He did not try to claim Her.
He did not try to suppress Her.
He met Her.
With eyes unclouded by conquest,
with a spine grown from truth,
and hands that knew the difference
between possession and presence.

Together they built nothing flashy –
no empire, no doctrines.
But from their union,
sprang gardens, rose paradise
and children who could weep without shame,
and songs that made the old stones soften.

Where once the feminine was silenced
and the masculine shackled,
now they dance –
not in symmetry,
but in harmony
and in devotion to the same center:
Life.
Earth.
Spirit-in-form.

This is not a myth of the future.
It is the memory of a possible now,
waiting for you
to remember it is already in your bones.