Before the hush could harbor breath or flame,
The Shaper knelt beside what none could name.
Weaver of silence, Sculptor of the deep,
He spun the dark where unborn patterns sleep.
No brush, no chisel—yet his touch made form,
Where stars would bloom and silent whisper grow warm.

Ere time drew shadow’s hem across the flame,
The Cosmos breathed—a hush too wide for name.
No void, but pressure coiled within the seam;
No fire, but warmth that swelled behind a dream.
It pulsed—a cradle steeped in voiceless will,
With breaths the stars rose up to fill.
A ripple stirred—not motion, but intent—
Across the dark’s unbroken firmament.

Creation opened—not with forge or flower,
But like a lung unfolding in the dark;
Its bellows wet with salt and primal clay,
A breath that drew the dawn up from the bay.
The elements took shape, each one a chord
Of matter sung where silence softly stirred.
Air grew with limbs, fire cast out a spine,
And water coiled in arcs of silver sign.
Their song was rhythm pulsing through the seed;
A lattice drawn in root and frost and reed.

The earth gained weight where absence once had laid,
Its bones engraved with laws the stars obeyed.
Mountains rose, carved deep with stellar will,
While rivers wrote their theorems’ tongue in stone.
A reckoning of hunger, heat, and grace—
Where hooves struck sparks, and vines remade the place.

Then Eros came, with lips of binding flame,
And Strife, whose gaze made fracture into form.
They met beneath the navel of the sphere,
Where ache births longing and touch becomes a wound.
Their clash was courtship—breath and blade entwined,
Lips grazed with ash, a scream beneath the rind.
And from their joy, the wound they could not keep,
Was born Entropy—child of what is left.

The fields turned black where hands had once sown wheat,
And hearths went cold, while kin forgot to eat.
Tongues turned to rust, the plow remade as knife,
As empires gorged on the dregs of their own life.
Their golden crests sank back into the loam;
Their children gnawed the roots of broken home.

Then slothful thought turned sword: belief, engorged, became the brand;
Tribes, lust-driven, carved their lines in blood across the land.
Proud names split like fruit, their bitter seeds took root;
Brothers hardened love into soulless stone.
No cause remained—no kin, no creed, no crown—
But self on self, all wrathfully striking all to dust.

Yet death was not the last unraveling breath,
But mulch—the first inheritance of death.
Stone crumbled into seed, and ash to skin;
The fruit returned to root, the root within.
Decay became the whisper in the grain:
What dies is what the living soil sustains.
And so the world, outworn, fell back to seed—
Each warbled cry a root in buried need.

The Cosmos leaned in—not king, nor beast, nor kin—
To sip the sorrowful bloom, its fading sting.
It drank the warmth, as if to mark the fall,
Then loosed the threads that stitched the soul to all.
It watched the sum dissolve, the form unwind,
And let the hush unfold what lay behind.

Then—somewhere past the hush, the pull, the close—
A flutter stirred, where forsaken life had split the stone.
No sound, but something cradled in the deep;
No light, but warmth that stirs the frost from sleep.
Creation breathed—a pulse no thought could keep;
The dream the breath began, too full to reap.

The Painter waits where ash and seed entwine,
Still stirring hue in root and fault and line.
He is the Sculptor ghosting through the grain,
The Weaver tugging time’s unraveling skein.
Not end, but hand—within, beyond, between—
He forever shapes the dream no waking eye has seen.