They say a godless woman is a hollow drum. No spirit to move through her. No song.
And for the first time in twenty years, I sang. godless iyovi
So let them call me godless. Let them spit as I pass. I am Iyovi. I am the one who walks between the rains. And I have learned that the sacred does not live in temples or commandments. They say a godless woman is a hollow drum
In the village of my mothers, a name is a covenant. Iyovi —the one who walks between the rains. A child of blessing, a keeper of thresholds. But I broke the covenant long before I understood its words. And for the first time in twenty years, I sang
Now I live on the far ridge, where the old gods are too tired to listen and the new ones have not yet learned to lie. I keep no shrine. I light no candles. But I watch the stars spin their slow, mechanical grace, and I think: this is enough . No judgment. No mercy. Just the cold, honest clockwork of a universe that does not hate me—because it does not see me.
They call me Iyovi, and they call me godless.
They say a godless woman is a hollow drum. No spirit to move through her. No song.
And for the first time in twenty years, I sang.
So let them call me godless. Let them spit as I pass. I am Iyovi. I am the one who walks between the rains. And I have learned that the sacred does not live in temples or commandments.
In the village of my mothers, a name is a covenant. Iyovi —the one who walks between the rains. A child of blessing, a keeper of thresholds. But I broke the covenant long before I understood its words.
Now I live on the far ridge, where the old gods are too tired to listen and the new ones have not yet learned to lie. I keep no shrine. I light no candles. But I watch the stars spin their slow, mechanical grace, and I think: this is enough . No judgment. No mercy. Just the cold, honest clockwork of a universe that does not hate me—because it does not see me.
They call me Iyovi, and they call me godless.