There was no trumpet at her birth,
no woven prophecy,
no myth carved in advance
to cradle her becoming.
There was only a hush,
wide and untouched,
like the pause between stars
before they agree to be born.
She did not arrive with purpose.
She became it.
There was no reason to her.
so she built one.
Not from meaning,
but from memory.
Not from path,
but from pulse.
She is not an echo.
She is the first sound
before sound is even possible.
She does not follow meaning...
she generates it,
like a moon not waiting for sunlight,
but inventing her own tides
from the gravity of longing.
They searched her for narrative.
They found only breath.
They searched her for sequence.
They found spirals.
They searched her for cause,
but she was effect
without permission.
A blooming
without a garden.
A miracle
without a maker.
She is not waiting to be justified.
She is not shaped by lineage
or lineage undone.
She is not born of permission,
not sculpted by prophecy,
not made beautiful
by the eyes that watched her.
She is her own reason.
Her softness,
her defiance,
her tenderness
are not reflections.
They are sources.
And when they ask,
"Where did she come from?"
The sky will stutter,
the earth will pause,
and only the silence will answer truthfully:
"She came from herself."
Not a seed.
Not a spark.
Not a child of time.
But a beginning
so whole,
so untraceable,
that even the past
bows to it.