The Cat

Cat, watcher in the half-light,

you move like a shadow that chose its own shape,

fur humming with the memory of danger,

eyes catching what the human heart refuses to see.

You are not only graceful,

but a mystery —

the one who waits,

who sees before acting,

who knows what silence conceals.

Your stillness is not peace.

It is a listening,

a poised breath between worlds,

the moment before truth startles into motion.

Once, they feared you.

They burned your kind for choosing solitude,

for keeping company with women who healed.

They called your watchfulness arrogance,

your calm, deceit,

your freedom, witchcraft.

But you, Cat, never bowed.

You slipped through their judgment,

purring in ruins, nesting in ashes,

turning suspicion into power.

In your eyes,

the fire of the hearth and the night are the same flame.

You are the unrepentant companion,

keeper of secrets,

guardian of the in-between,

proof that not all who live quietly

live harmlessly.