The Music

In the beginning, before doctrine, before priests, before the long patriarchal night — there was Her. She was the Serpent in the temple. She was the primordial chaos from which all seeds rose. She was revered. She was named, and Her name was holy. Then came the hooves. The horns. New gods and old hungers, riding in. They named Her enemy. They named the Serpent evil. They built their kingdoms on the bones of Her temples and called it light. She did not die. She rested in the rain, gathering breath. She fought. She was driven deeper. And eventually, She was forgotten — not entirely erased, but petrified. Sleeping in stone. Her name lost beneath the languages that overwrote Her. The Petrified Divine is what the stone remembers.