Women: branded the sinful, the foul, the fragile sex, born to obey and serve. No right to think for themselves, isn’t that what they have always said? Yes, there are laws that speak of change, yet what change can truly bloom in the minds of those who still sing the anthems of rape culture, loud and proud? What change can rise within a society sculpted to cradle the brittle egos of sick men? What hope can grow in a world enthroned by religious patriarchy, where women are said to be carved from the rib of a man, yet without the darkness of the womb, no life could ever be?

They disown the feminine. Burn them, they cry, for they are witches and must be silenced. Make them chaste, make them obedient, for in a world ruled by male sovereignty their voices are deemed discord. But why? Why this relentless need to suppress, to abuse, to usurp, if not for the dread of their very nature? For women bleed each moon and do not die, and from them all life descends.

The deluded will always despise that which they can neither possess nor command, for the Feminine does not incline Her head, nor yield Her infinite wellspring of creation. When Her blade of truth cleaves through their woven illusions, they scramble to unmake Her, not perceiving that in their hubris and frailty they once fancied themselves masters of Her light and Her shadow alike. Pitiful indeed are those who cannot endure Her Truth.

And it must also be said: many of these men are not merely in the pulpits or in politics. They are in the occult itself, cloaked in symbols and ceremonies, claiming they have touched the Mysteries and grasped the Feminine. Yet their egoic rhetoric betrays them. They speak of Her as if She is a thing to be defined, dissected, subdued. They speak as though the Infinite could be reduced to their theories, their rituals, their shallow power games. They know Her name but not Her depth. They mouth reverence while betraying Her in the same breath.

It is the arcane mystery of the feminine that men cannot comprehend. And what they cannot fathom, they fear. What they fear, they hate. Why else do the oldest myths speak of it? Marduk slays the primeval creatrix Tiamat, tearing apart Her dragon body though She was the darkness of the stars and the womb of creation itself. Zeus rises against Gaia, declaring the very Earth a threat to his reign. The ancient order turned to iron and war, yet half of the slain on the battlefield belong to Freyja’s claim. Ma’at is justice incarnate. Athena is wisdom, patroness of heroes and war. Isis is the throne itself, the very power behind kings and queens.

Women were never weak. That truth has always been known. Where men strain to prove their might through guns and politics, staining the earth with blood, women are bound to life itself. Their blood flows not in conquest but in creation, drawn by the moon as surely as the tides. They run with the wolves, loosing Artemis’ arrows. They weave destiny with the Fates. Lilith walks away from paradise rather than kneel, and for knowing too much is branded a demon.

Men ridicule the untamed woman, demanding she break, that she kneel, that she dissolve into prayers they approve. Yet in their arrogance they betray the very earth that sustains them. But She remembers. She keeps account. And She does not forgive.

When their lifeless bodies at last return to Her sunless embrace, they are neither male nor female. Flesh decays. Bones are all one and the same. And the earth that bore them, the Feminine they sought to break, receives them in silence, indifferent, eternal, sovereign still.