“This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh: she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of man.” — Genesis 2:23
Not made from dust but drawn from dream, She rises from thought’s deepest stream. Born not beneath, but from within, She is the form assumption brings in.
“Bone of my bones,” the voice declares — A thing once hidden now freely wears. She is the shape of inner call, The world made flesh, the echo of all.
Not another, not apart, But the outer breath of the dreaming heart. She is the answer imagination gave, The garden grown from what man craves.
She is Eve, embodiment true, The world that mirrors what you do. She is not sin, nor shame, nor fall — But love responding to inner call.
To name is to create, to speak is to form, She is the hush before the storm. Call her lovely, and she is sweet; Call her cursed, and strife you meet.
The crucifixion? The fixing of thought — When desire is nailed, and outcome sought. And resurrection is simply this: The woman appears — the world's sweet kiss.