Have You Ever Really Loved a Woman? — Bryan Adams Tantric Hymn to Devi

Bryan Adams’ “Have You Ever Really Loved a Woman?” is not just a love ballad — it is a tantric teaching disguised as a pop song.

If you listen closely, every line is an instruction for approaching Devi, the Cosmic Feminine, not as an idea but as a living Presence.

This is not a song about possession or conquest.
It is about surrender.
It is about learning to know Her — not just admire Her beauty, but hear every thought, see every dream, and even set Her free when She wishes to fly.
It is about letting Her into your breath, into your blood, until She is no longer “out there” but the very current that moves your life.

And then comes the final challenge:

Have you really, really ever loved a woman?

When you hear it as Devi’s voice, it stops being a sweet question and becomes a dare —
the call to love with such depth that you end up helpless in Her arms, broken open, remade.
This song is not just music — it is a ritual of initiation.

Verse 1: Approaching Devi

To really love a woman
To understand her – You gotta know her deep inside
Hear every thought – See every dream
And give her wings when she wants to fly

 

Here, “woman” is not just a partner — she is Śakti, the Goddess in flesh.
This verse becomes the manual for approaching the Divine Feminine: not through worship from a safe distance, but through total participation in Her inner world.

“To know her deep inside” is sādhana — the process of entering Her mystery until there is no inside and outside.
To “hear every thought” is to attune yourself to Her play — to see Her not just in temples but in every event of life, even the painful ones.
To “see every dream” is to perceive the universe as Her dreaming — every form, every person, every destiny, part of Her līlā.

And then comes the first demand She makes:

Give her wings when she wants to fly.

This is the surrender point.
If you would love Devi, you cannot try to possess Her.
She is freedom itself — the power that moves galaxies — and to love Her is to let Her move as She pleases, even if it breaks you.
Kaula tradition teaches that Śakti cannot be chained; the moment you try to bind Her, you lose Her.

So the verse ends with the man no longer standing, no longer grasping:

Then when you find yourself lyin’ helpless in her arms
You know you really love a woman.

This is the first fruit of true devotion — to be utterly undone in the arms of the Goddess, no longer fighting Her current but letting it carry you.

Chorus 1: Mantra to the Goddess

When you love a woman
You tell her that she's really wanted
When you love a woman you tell her that she's the one
'Cause she needs somebody
To tell her that it's gonna last forever

 

When “woman” is Devi, this chorus becomes a prayer — a spoken vow to the Feminine that lives in all things.

“To tell her she’s really wanted” is not flattery.
It is the mantra of invocation — saying to the Goddess,

“I want You here, in this body, in this life.
Not in heaven, not in philosophy — here.”

“To tell her that she’s the one” is to recognize Her as the Mahādevī — not one among many, but the One from whom everything springs.
Kaula mystics would say that this is the turning point where devotion becomes exclusive — no longer scattered among idols, but focused entirely on the living Presence.

She needs somebody to tell her that it’s gonna last forever.

This is the eternal vow — the saṅkalpa of the devotee.
Not a passing mood, not a temporary practice, but the promise that you will walk with Her until the end of illusion itself.
This line asks: will you stay in this fire until it finishes its work, no matter how long it takes?

The chorus ends with the piercing question:

So tell me have you ever really
Really, really ever loved a woman?

When read as Devi’s voice, this is Her challenge to the sādhaka:

“You speak of devotion — but have you really surrendered?
Have you let Me break you open until you lie helpless in My arms?”

Verse 2: Breathing the Goddess

To really love a woman – Let her hold you
'Til you know how she needs to be touched
You've gotta breathe her – really taste her
'Til you can feel her in your blood
And when you can see your unborn children in her eyes
You know you really love a woman

Here the song takes us beyond devotion into embodiment.
This is no longer about seeing or hearing the Goddess — it is about letting Her enter you completely.

“Let her hold you” — this is total vulnerability.
It is allowing Śakti to be the one who embraces, consoles, and reshapes you.
It is the sādhaka dropping every defense and letting the Divine Mother’s arms become the only shelter.

“You've gotta breathe her – really taste her” —
this is the secret of Kaula practice: to not merely worship Śakti from afar but to take Her in until She becomes your very breath, until every cell of your being vibrates with Her presence.
This is the mystery of āveśa — divine possession — when the Goddess moves through you as you.

’Til you can feel her in your blood

This is the breakthrough moment: She is no longer “out there.”
Her pulse is your pulse.
Her desire is your desire.
She has become the life-force coursing through your veins.

And then the most mystical line:

When you can see your unborn children in her eyes
You know you really love a woman.

When “woman” is Devi, these unborn children are the worlds-to-come — the infinite possibilities She carries in Her womb.
To see them in Her eyes is to glimpse creation itself, to know that every form is waiting to be born through Her.
This is no longer just love — it is co-creation.
You and the Goddess stand together as partners in the cosmic play.

Bridge: The Vow and the Tenderness

Oh – You've got to give her some faith
Hold her tight
A little tenderness
You gotta treat her right
She will be there for you
Takin' good care of you
You really gotta love your woman, yeah

 

When “woman” is Devi, this bridge becomes a sacred contract.

“You’ve got to give her some faith” — this is not blind belief but trust.
The Goddess does not open Herself to a half-hearted seeker.
Faith is the key that says:

“I will stay even when the fire burns, even when the path is dark.
I will not run from Your tests.”

“Hold her tight” — not to control, but to stay present when Her current shakes you.
Cling to Her as Draupadī clung to Kṛṣṇa with her cry — refusing to let go even when stripped bare.

“A little tenderness” — this is crucial.
Without tenderness, devotion becomes fanaticism.
Śakti must be approached with softness, with reverence, with care — because She is both the lightning and the lotus.

“You gotta treat her right” — this is dharma.
Love of Devi must translate into action: respect for women, for the earth, for the body, for the flow of life.
Otherwise, the words are empty.

And then the great promise:

She will be there for you / Takin’ good care of you.

Once the vow is made and the offering is given, the Goddess reveals Herself as Mother.
The seeker who surrendered is no longer alone — he is carried.
Her grace becomes the ground under his feet, the shield around his heart.

Outro: The Final Challenge

 

Yeah
Just tell me have you ever really
Really, really ever loved a woman?
Oh, just tell me have you ever really
Really, really ever loved a woman?

The outro is not gentle — it is insistent.
By the time we reach this point, the question is no longer romantic — it is existential.

Devi Herself is asking:

“Have you really loved Me?
Not just admired Me, not just desired Me,
but given Me everything — until nothing of you was left?”

The repetition is deliberate.
Each “really” strikes like a drumbeat, hammering through every layer of pretense.
By the final line, there is nowhere to hide.
Either you have loved Her this way, or you have not — and if not, the question lingers like a call to action.

In mystical language, the outro is the moment of śaktipāta — the descent of grace that demands a decision.
Will you step into this love fully, knowing it will burn you down and make you new?
Or will you keep love at a safe distance, never lying helpless in Her arms?

The Dare of Loving Devi

By the end of “Have You Ever Really Loved a Woman?” the question no longer feels rhetorical.
It feels like a mirror held up to the soul.
The verses have guided you through the stages: seeing Her dreams, giving Her wings, breathing Her into your blood, vowing to never leave.
The bridge has taught you the faith and tenderness required.
And the outro refuses to let you leave unchanged.

When “woman” is understood as Devi, the song becomes a rite of passage.
It demands more than romance — it demands your whole self.
It asks if you are willing to be undone, to lie helpless in Her arms, to let Her remake you into someone capable of holding Her infinite current.

This is not merely about loving one person — it is about loving the Feminine everywhere:
in the partner who stands before you, in the strangers you meet, in the earth under your feet, in the wild, terrifying play of life itself.

Bryan Adams’ question becomes Devi’s challenge:

Have you really, really ever loved a woman — loved Me — enough to let Me burn away everything false until only Love remains?

If the answer is yes, then this song is not just heard — it is lived.
And if the answer is no, the song leaves you standing at the threshold, with the invitation still open.