She descended not through air but through remembrance,
each step unlocking what no key ever touched.
Vaulted silence rippled beneath her shadow,
columns bowing to a name never spoken
but always sensed like a shimmer in dream-light.
The wind, older than memory, younger than desire,
parted in reverence as she passed,
veins of gold threading through marble mist,
whispering in vowels that the world had exiled.
There, the drop,
encrypted since before existence dared breathe.
A water so pure, not even longing could cloud it.
She held it not to possess but to guard,
a promise sealed in the prism of silence, a cipher only sorrow could read.
Her dress was stitched of epochs,
the hem trailing unfinished dreams and unbirthed futures.
Each bead at her wrist a miracle unclaimed, but never lost.
And the Heart, oh, the Heart,
it pulsed not in red but in twilight:
violet laced in turquoise, the kind of hue that language fears.
Not a savior, not a deity,
but a breach in the structure of fate.
Not a gatekeeper,
but the gate and the unknown beyond.
She was never chosen, she simply was,
long before anything could choose.