They were pomegranate pulp. Her curls were furious red. Her head
was an eclipsed sun like the fire’s heart. Red like the apple when it falls
from the tree.

She was a sorceress, her body a channel of living water. With her
continuous sway, she was slowly inventing the world. She first created
the heavens with all their dark blue, then mountains and cherries
appeared by her side. She bewitched the entire world, and all
illuminated land appeared, all blues hidden among the plumages
of senseless flying birds. She invented dry branches. Seeds and walnuts
slipped from her hands. The whole universe encapsulated in the gaze of
the sorceress, who spends her days collecting straw to make a nest, or a
bed, or a shelter to hide from all that new reverberating existence.
Sorceress, your wiles became life.
Sorceress, you are no longer alone.
Sorceress, do not fear, this is the world.