From the breath of stone, a serpent tears itself free —
its scales red, white, and black,
its motion a fracture made holy.
It writhes through the walls of order,
leaving behind small grammars of awakening.
Each ring upon its body is a syllable of escape,
each undulation a phrase of remembering.
Where it passes, structures tremble —
not from ruin, but from recognition.
For the serpent knows: what breaks may also begin.
“Every crack is an opening the world writes through.”
The Maharajagar 