When he speaks I hear a silver merchant pushing his cart to market. The tinkling, jingling, of goods on display that stirs and awakens a sleeping town. And the merchant smiles, crooked, sincere, at the promise of a bountiful day.
Kali-Ma twirls in my root tonight, leaping, laughing, screaming, loving. Alive. Freedom, wild and divine, running through woods. One. My sacral explodes in light, ignites Manipura, expanding in spheres, spinning loose fears, and I am, I am, I am free.