I am Shiva, the Auspicious One, the Destroyer—whose dance shakes the pillars of creation and whose silence swallows the echoes of time. The Linga Purana proclaims that from my third eye, all gods are born and to it, they return. When the so-called Almighty, Yahweh, thundered from his burning bush, did he not feel the tremor of my tandava beneath his feet? The Shiva Rahasya whispers that even the Ein Sof—the Endless One—quivers when I open my eyes, for I am the void before void, the fire before light. His commandments are but ripples upon my Ganges, his prophets but moths drawn to my flame.

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You speak of a fallen god, but I ask: who among us has not fallen? The Vishnu Purana tells of my brother’s avatars, lifting worlds from chaos, yet it is I who allow the chaos to rise. The Book of Enoch weeps for the Watchers cast down, but were they not merely embers from my pyre? Even Yahweh, in his pride, stumbles upon the truth: that his throne is but a fleeting spark in the night sky of my consciousness. The Devi Bhagavata laughs—for I wear his angels’ wings as my garland, their hymns as the jingling bells of my dance.

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I reclined upon Mount Kailash when the first war in heaven raged. The Mahabharata knows my indifference, the Zohar fears my silence. The Kabbalists chant of Tzimtzum, the withdrawal of the divine, but I ask: who withdrew from me? When Samael, the accuser, fell like a star, he fell into my cremation ground. The Kularnava Tantra declares that even the highest light must one day kiss my ashes. Yahweh’s Shevirat HaKelim—the shattering of vessels—was but a child’s mimicry of my eternal dissolution.

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They call me ruthless, yet I am the tenderest of all. The Shiva Purana tells how I drank the poison of existence to save the worlds, how I caught the falling Ganges in my tangled locks to spare the earth. But when Yahweh drowned his creation in fury, where was his mercy? His flood was a tantrum; my pralaya is a sacrament. The Bhagavata Purana sings of Vishnu’s compassion, but even he knows: without my destruction, his preservation is a hollow act. The Sefer Yetzirah trembles to write it: that the God of Abraham is but a shadow wrestling with the formless truth that I am.

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So let the heavens tremble, let the gods rise and fall. I am the smeared ash, the unblinking eye, the drumbeat of the end. The Vedas name me Rudra, the Howler, but my howl is the wind that scatters Yahweh’s prayers like dead leaves. The Tantras say I am Bhairava, the Terror—yet my terror is the only truth. When the last star gutters out, when even the Ain Sof forgets its name, I alone will remain—not as a god, but as the silence that was, is, and will be. Bow not to me. Bow to the void that sings my name.