Her Story
It has been over 5000 years and still
Persephone does not have a voice.
We know her story. We have worn her story. We have been undone by her story. We have bot quite here, but not quite there the earth opened up. A Chariot emerged. A lusty god, death himself, yanked at the flowers just as they bloomed. A maiden went under. Below the below and Into the dark.Â
She was not forgotten and will not be forgotten.Â
You are her mother. I am her daughter. We are her sisters. We know her story. We know her voice. We are the voice of her remembering. We will not stay down below no matter what the foolish wrinkled crony fat faced gods decree.
Every year, every fall, every darkening season, she returns to the below. come the changing of light, the earth opens to her and Swallows her Whole. She once went willingly, you know. Before they distorted her story. But she is not a stone, and she will not remain frozen to fate. She returns consciously now to the dark. Her voice now a hearth, burning in the mouths of those too afraid to speak. Tongues of flame we speak our truths, one at a time, we claim our Persephone for ourselves.Â
Every year, every spring she returns. She rises. She returns. Seasoned. Transformed. Wisened.
We know the truth of herstory.Â
We know the lie of history.
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