She ponders: Who am I, drifting through this endless night? A breath of starlight, woven from forgotten dreams. Why does my form dissolve into blue eternity? Because I am not flesh, but the question that outlives the body. What do I hold in this outstretched hand? The dark bloom of mystery, whose heart hides galaxies yet unborn. Why does the swan of mist follow my every motion? It is memory, graceful and silent, carrying what I once was into what I become. Where does this dance of light and shadow lead? Nowhere and everywhere, home is the flow itself. Am I creator, or merely the echo of creation? Both, and neither: the lotus opens because I ask, and answers because I listen.