Shrishti

Had she not sacrificed herself,
There would be no Shrishti.
Against her rage, the gods kneel—
Even the serpent-wielder yields.
Her presence: warm, yet terrifying… perhaps teal?

Then there’s her who shines so bright—
She is the light that ends all suffering,
Showering success on souls in plight.
Wherever her sacred feet may tread,
Wealth and joy are gently spread.

And she who taught tradition itself—
She is memory. She is knowledge.
To the scholar, she is the school,
All books seek her mind to forage.

The wise may know, the three
That this poem has caressed.
The wiser may see, it’s not just three,
But half the world, this addressed.

Tell me, O wise one, who schooled you?
Who was it, who was it—
Who did, will, or has brought you joy?
Who is it you consider your wealth?
Who blessed you with Shrishti and stealth?