By Aditi Jaiswal
They say that roots are sacred things,
Entwined in Gods and golden rings.
""Obey and learn that respect isn’t earned;
This garden has rules— the serpent shall be the king!”
Listen as the commandments grow claws and strike,
Feed scrolls dipped in blood to fool what’s undivine.
And I stood there as the serpent was crowned,
Biting through my leash when the silence grew teeth,
When the scared grew sick, and the rot lay beneath.
Wash! Wash! Wash! Gold, glitter, and bronze—
Howl as they gasp, for this loud shall swallow the wax,
And the truth shall burn where the idols once knelt.
They said I should kneel where the scriptures were burned,
But the pages were still warm, and I blistered from the lies they told.
Am I too loud now that I’ve swallowed the silence whole?
Too much of the mirror that cracked before it shone?
I didn’t ask to be carved from stone and soot,
Didn’t ask for the bruises to bloom behind my ribs like mould.
I held the weight the way I was taught,
Biting down until my teeth dreamed of escape,
Smiling so wide the rot could hide inside.
But now I know, and knowing doesn’t unknown:
The ritual is a lie; his shrine made of rusted gold!
Am I a sinner or a scribe? Am I a vessel or a sin?
I showed the prowess— my sword went through his soul,
His blood fell down, and I collected it in my bowl.
If the soil inebriated, the malice would never stop—
So without hesitation I drank the whole gore;
Till every drop intoxicated my petty soul. My knees touched the soil,
But this venom had a vessel strong enough to bore.
They branded me beast with the mark they had drawn,
And cursed me for roaring the moment I'd fawned.
But a mirror once cracked can’t reflect the same face,
And a cage once kicked down becomes a holy space.
I didn’t choose the wrath, it grew under my nails,
Like ivy through concrete, like truth through tales.
They called it a curse; I labelled it my spine.
They called it dissent; I labelled it divine.
So yes, I did become what their scripture forbids—
The furore in the temple, the scream in the amid.
Not to profane, but to cleanse what they’ve done,
To burn down the throne, to unbury the sun.
And if I’m the monster that they chose to breed,
Then know I was born from a God who would bleed.
And if I inherited the sin, then I let the sin speak,
For I carry this wound like a nail on my teeth.
Call me heretic, monster, or unclean,
But know I was the scion that rose from the serpent's spleen.