The Green Madonna
The Green Madonna
She arrived draped in constellations,
wearing a crown woven from the silver bones of moons,
her emerald hands folded in a prayer
older than the first star.
The galaxies bowed.
Not from fear,
but from recognition.
For she was Mantis,
Celestial Madonna,
keeper of forgotten hymns
and patron saint of wandering souls.
Her eyes held entire nebulae,
spiraling cathedrals of light
where comets burned like votive candles
before an altar without end.
She spoke no words.
The universe listened anyway.
Planets turned more slowly
to hear the rustle of her wings,
vast and jeweled,
stretching across the velvet architecture of eternity.
Each movement scattered stardust
into the dark places between worlds,
and new suns were born
from the fragments.
She wandered the heavens barefoot,
her feet touching neither cloud nor stone,
leaving trails of luminous roses
that bloomed in the vacuum of space.
The angels followed at a distance.
Not because they were commanded.
Because beauty itself
had become a destination.
In her breast burned a sacred flame,
neither mercy nor judgment,
but something greater:
understanding.
She knew the language of the broken.
The dialect of the lonely.
The silent prayers spoken by hearts
too weary to believe they would be heard.
And so she gathered them.
The exiles.
The dreamers.
The forgotten children of distant worlds.
She carried them beneath her mantle of stars,
where no wound was mocked,
no tear was wasted,
and no soul was abandoned.
Above her,
the heavens unfolded like a jeweled fan.
Below her,
the darkness learned to sing.
And there,
upon a throne carved from dawn itself,
Mantis sat as Celestial Madonna,
Mother of Starlight,
Queen of the Infinite Bloom,
her wings embracing creation
as though the universe
were a child finally returned home. ?????
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