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A poem that arose from a meditative contemplation about the nature of God.

Mary was never a name. It was a mantle. A frequency worn, not given. A path, threaded through the body, then buried beneath careful edits. In the lineage of Womb and Word, to be called Mary was to be known as keeper of the flame, as vessel of the Mother, as Sophia remembering herself in flesh. No decree marked it. No scroll confirmed it. It was recognized in presence.