04/22/2026
“Song Beyond the Circle”
There were women in my life
who did not raise their hands —
they raised their tone.
Soft as moss in the forest,
like a lullaby hummed
to keep a child quiet.
One screamed
until blood became the color of an answer.
The other sang
until the question disappeared.
Both knew
how to hold the reins.
One pulled my hair,
the other pulled my conscience.
“Fold your hands,”
the gentle one said —
and the world narrowed
to the space between my palms.
And then even further —
to the throat.
To the place where a voice
can no longer return to itself.
I was not there.
There was a good child,
who does not disturb,
who does not hurt,
who does not know.
In the circle of women
they all stood:
the Keeper of Silence,
the Holy Form,
the Mother with two faces —
and the one who sang sweet nothings,
so nothing could be seen.
Different faces.
The same function:
to seal the passage
to one’s own source.
The body knew before language —
that softness can suffocate,
that manipulative kindness can be a tool.
When I spoke the truth —
the day before Christmas Eve,
after crossing thousands of miles —
there were no questions.
Only the closing of the circle of collusion.
Loyalty stronger than the child.
Appearance stronger than memory.
That was when I saw clearly:
it was never a home.
It was an arrangement.
An arrangement that sings
so it does not have to feel and hear.
I do not step into that circle.
I do not sing to belong.
My voice no longer returns into foreign hands.
It does not seek permission.
It does not wait.
It is.
Like a current
that does not ask for direction.
Like a space
that cannot be folded into single prayer.
I do not carry them forward.
I see —
and release.
And what moves through me
has no audience.
It touches the edge of nous.
And it does not fall silent.