Cathedrals of Thunder

She is a tempest in mourning,
An untamed hymn of thunder,
Bruised sky stitched across her shoulders—
The daughter of silence,
Swallowing whole the lightning
That quivers in her throat.

Her veins crack open
Like dry earth begging for rain,
And rage, red as garnets,
Floods into the marrow of her bones.
She is no quiet prayer;
She is a cathedral of storms,
A sermon of winds that tear apart
Every roof of calm she once built.

Clouds kneel to her fury.
Waves bow beneath her wrists.
Her heartbeat splits the horizon,
A thousand drums shattering dawn.
She fights—
Not with swords,
But with rain that drowns the unspoken,
With thunder that carries the voices
Of all the women who could not scream.

And yet—
when the storm bends into stillness,
when the sky exhales in surrender,
she stands—
hair soaked, eyes burning,
a warrior carved in water and fire.
She knows:
Rage is not ruin.
Rage is resurrection.
The flood is not her ending
but the soil’s first thirst for spring.

She—
a reminder that even destruction
can bloom into light,
that every storm that howls
is only a prelude to rebirth.

- Khushi Kaul