Supergirl as Devi: The Song Where the Goddess Speaks of Getting Lost and Taking Flight

There are songs that admire women.
There are songs that worship them.
And then there are songs where the voice of the Goddess Herself slips through the music, confesses Her own descent into the world, and invites us to follow Her back into the sky.

Reamonn’s “Supergirl” is one of those rare songs.
It is not simply about a strong lover or a free-spirited girl — it is a hymn to Śakti walking among us, a song where Devi speaks of getting lost, of wandering through the night, of laughing fear into daylight, of screaming us awake, and finally of flying free.

Listen closely, and you will hear two voices braided together:
the lover’s awestruck witness — “she rules the world” —
and the Goddess’ own confession — “I got lost on the way, but I’m a supergirl.”

This is not pop sentiment. This is līlā turned into melody: the descent, the forgetting, the burning, and the rising.
This is the Śakti-Tantra compressed into a four-minute song:
She who falls, She who breaks, She who plants, She who flies.

Verse 1

You can tell by the way she walks that she's my girl
You can tell by the way she talks, she rules the world
You can see in her eyes that no one is her chain
She's my girl, my supergirl

This opening verse is the darśan — the first glimpse of Her.
The “she” here is not just a lover but Mahāśakti walking in the world.

“By the way she walks” — She moves with sovereignty.
In Kaula language, this is svātantrya śakti — the freedom that is Her essence. Even Her gait is a revelation: effortless, unapologetic, unhurried.
“She rules the world” — This is literal. The world is nothing but Her play (līlā), and Her speech, Her voice, sets it spinning. When She speaks, reality obeys.
“No one is her chain” — Here we hear the first flash of Her unbound nature. Though She may seem to be someone’s “girl” in the narrative, no relationship, no karmic knot, can bind Her. She is the unfettered one — Nityā Mukta, eternally free.
“My supergirl” — The devotee’s voice slips in here: “my” is the cry of bhakti. This is not ownership but intimacy — the recognition that She walks not just out there, but within the heart.

This first verse, then, is a revelation of Shakti’s sovereignty.
She is simultaneously near (my girl) and infinite (ruler of the world).
The mystic stands stunned, whispering: “She is mine — and yet She belongs to no one.”

Chorus

And then she'd say, "It's okay"
"I got lost on the way, but I'm a supergirl
And supergirls don't cry"
And then she'd say, "It's alright"
"I got home late last night, but I'm a supergirl
And supergirls just fl

Here the mood shifts — from the devotee witnessing Her to Her speaking directly.

“It’s okay… I got lost on the way.”
This is Devi acknowledging the entire cosmic play of forgetting and rediscovery.
- To “get lost” is to descend into saṁsāra, to take form, to become entangled in karma.
- She does not deny this wandering — She blesses it, saying “It’s okay.” This is the heart of Tantra: nothing is outside Her embrace, not even getting lost.
“But I’m a supergirl.”
This is the moment of smaraṇa — remembrance. She reveals that despite the wandering, She remains untouched.
The word “supergirl” is almost a mantra of transcendence — She is beyond harm, beyond shame, beyond the story.
“Supergirls don’t cry.”
This line is not stoic denial — it is the roar of the Goddess. She does not weep helplessly before destiny. She burns destiny. This is Kālī’s laughter in the cremation ground — fierce joy that breaks the spell of victimhood.
“I got home late last night.”
Coming home is the return to Self, to pure Consciousness.
The lateness is part of the līlā — She took the long road, She went through shadow and wilderness, but She still arrives.
“Supergirls just fly.”
This is the final gesture: no need to argue, to justify, to linger in the past. She soars upward.
In mystical language, this is udayagati — the upward current, the soaring of kuṇḍalinī that no longer crawls but takes fligh

This chorus is like Śakti’s own confession and teaching:
“Yes, I went into the darkness with you. Yes, I got lost. But I am still the One who flies — and so are you.”

Verse 2

And then she'd say that nothing can go wrong
When you're in love, what can go wrong?
Then she'd laugh the night time into day
Pushing her fear further long

Here Devi reveals Her secret power — love as the unshakable ground of being.

“Nothing can go wrong.”
This is not naïve optimism. It is the fearless proclamation of one who sees that all events — even what the ego calls “wrong” — are ripples in Her own ocean.
When She is present, everything is already woven into the perfection of the Whole.
“When you’re in love, what can go wrong?”
Love here is not merely romantic — it is mahā-prema, the fundamental current that holds existence together.
This is the great bhairavī-vāk: when love is recognized as the ground of reality, even pain and loss are transfigured.
“She’d laugh the night time into day.”
This is perhaps the most mystical line of the song. Her laughter is uprising śakti — the sound that turns darkness into dawn.
It is the same laughter attributed to Kālī, to Tārā, to all the fierce Mothers who dispel fear not by explaining it away but by dancing through it.
“Pushing her fear further long.”
Fear is not repressed — it is sent back to the horizon, dissolved in the vastness of Her being.
This is the essence of abheda-bhāva — the state where even fear is seen as Hers, and therefore cannot dominate.

This verse shows us the alchemy of Shakti:
Fear becomes laughter, night becomes day, “wrong” becomes part of the dance.
It is the revelation that when you stand in Her love, nothing in the world has the power to break you.

Verse 3

And then she'd shout down the line
Tell me she's got no more time
'Cause she's a supergirl
And supergirls don't hide
And then she'd scream in my face
Tell me to leave, leave this place
'Cause she's a supergirl
And supergirls just fly

This verse is pure Ugra-Śakti — the fierce, cutting aspect of the Goddess.

“Shout down the line… no more time.”
This is the moment of rupture.
She shouts because She is breaking the last thread of clinging.
There is no more time for delay, for half-measures — the sādhaka must move forward or be burned by stagnation.
“Supergirls don’t hide.”
This is a profound statement.
Hiding is the ego’s attempt to avoid transformation.
Devi will not hide, and She will not allow us to hide either — She calls everything into the open.
“Scream in my face.”
This is the confrontation that every mystic must eventually face — when the Divine stops consoling and begins to tear away the last illusions.
This scream is not rejection; it is awakening. It is Her saying: “Leave this smallness. Leave this place. Come into My sky.”
“Supergirls just fly.”
Once again, the refrain — but now it feels even more urgent.
Flight is no longer just transcendence; it is an ultimatum.
Fly — or remain chained

This verse is transformational violence — the sacred blow that shatters the last knots.
It is terrifying to the ego, but liberating to the soul.
Here the Goddess is both the destroyer and the liberator — Kālī who drives us out of every false shelter so that only the Infinite remains.

Outro

Yes, she's a supergirl, a supergirl
She's sowin' seeds, she's burnin' trees
She's sowin' seeds, she's burnin' trees
Yes, she's a supergirl, a supergirl
A supergirl, my supergirl

The outro is the culmination — the phala (fruit) of everything that came before.

“She’s sowin’ seeds.”
After the shouting, screaming, and flying, comes regeneration.
The soil that was scorched is now fertile. Seeds of a new life, a new consciousness, are planted.
This is śṛṣṭi — the creative act that follows dissolution.
“She’s burnin’ trees.”
The burning is still happening — not everything old can survive.
Trees here are the fixed karmic structures, the shelters we once clung to.
She keeps the fire alive so that we do not grow complacent too soon.
This is saṃhāra — destruction — but now we see it as sacred, as part of Her ongoing dance.
Repetition of “supergirl.”
The final mantra-like repetition feels like a japa — a remembrance of Her nature.
After everything — getting lost, laughing fear away, screaming in the face — She remains the same: free, flying, sovereign.

This outro shows us that the Goddess is not only destroyer but planter, not only fierce but fertile.
Her work is never just to break — She breaks in order to create.
The cycle ends with renewal and remembrance, leaving the listener with the sense that something has begun rather than ended.

Conclusion

When Supergirl ends, there is silence — but not emptiness.
It feels as if She has just walked through the room:
laughing, crying without tears, shouting down the line, planting seeds in the scorched earth.

This song is not a story about someone else.
It is a mirror of the Goddess in us —
the part that gets lost, that loves fiercely, that refuses to hide,
that burns down the old forest and then sows new life in the ashes.

To listen to Supergirl in this way is to remember that
there is a place within us that can scream at illusion,
bless our own lostness, and still rise —
not crawling, not apologizing —
but flying.