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A Poem of the Rakshasa a priestess In the temple of dawn where the sacred flames slept, there walked a priestess with eyes full of light. Her voice was a hush that could quiet the storms, her hands were the balm that could soften the night. She loved a king who was generous and bold, or so she believed when he knelt at her shrine. He whispered devotion in moon‑silver words, and she offered her trust as though it were wine. But power is hunger that gnaws at the soul, and kings are but mortals who fear their own throne. He shattered the vows he had sworn in the dark, and left her to bleed on the altar alone. Her sisters lay silent, the temple defiled, the gods turned their faces away from her cries. So she stepped into fire with grief as her crown, and rose from the ashes with flame in her eyes. No longer the healer, no longer the bride, no longer the priestess who knelt to the sky. She sharpened her sorrow to claws made of night, and carried her fury where angels won’t fly. Now kings who remember her whisper her name, and tremble at shadows that move like a sigh. For she is the fire betrayal became— the Rakshasa woman who never will die.