She Who Powers the Living

Before the first name,
before language divided the sky from the soil,
there was a pulse inside the dark—
a quiet fire within the cell.

She entered not with force,
but with consent.
A symbiosis.
An ancient joining that gave rise to energy itself.

She is mitochondria.
She is the powerhouse.
Not metaphor, not myth—
but the origin of motion, warmth, growth, will.

Within her walls, the miracle unfolds:
ATP—
the sacred currency of life—
spun from air, food, flame.

Every heartbeat. Every blink.
Every cry, every creation,
is powered by her unseen labor.

She does not ask for praise.
She does not boast.
She simply gives.
Quietly. Endlessly.
From mother to child,
from generation to generation,
without interruption,
without need of the father’s seed.

She is not only in humans.
She is in every living thing with a nucleus.
Every leaf. Every lion. Every child.
Her lineage is older than our stories.

We are not born alone.
We are born already lit from within—
each cell bearing her signature,
each breath carrying her vow:

Life will continue through me.
Not by domination,
but by devotion.

She is the mother within the molecule.
The keeper of energy.
The quiet architect of survival.

Not past.
Not gone.
But the original yes.

And so we bow—
not to a god above,
but to the one who lives
in every pulse
of everything that breathes.