Perpetuum
Before time found its pulse
and the void birthed its silence,
there was the Word,
a murmur of infinity,
a flicker igniting chaos.
It needed no beginning,
nor an end—
it was pure motion,
a path without return.
Poetry was born from this trembling,
a wound opened at the edge of the world.
It is the answer God whispers
when questions grow too heavy.
In the poet’s hands,
each word carries a spark of primordial fire,
a fragment of heaven fallen
into human depths.
Life—this perpetuum mobile of the flesh—
is but a wheel of time
spinning over the ashes of days gone by.
It burns and is reborn,
crumbles and reassembles,
as if at its core
rests the yearning of a weary god
for his own creations.
We live existence as a shadow of light,
chasing meanings that always escape,
but in this motion
eternity hides itself.
Divinity does not answer,
but poetry speaks in Its place,
a fragile bridge between mortals and the eternal.
It is the voice of sacred silence,
an echo reminding us
that even darkness can sing.
Poetry, like an unseen river,
carves paths through the rock of time,
forever pushing forward
the wheels of creation.
The Word once spoken does not return,
but it continues its journey,
bearing heaven and earth on its shoulders.
It is the energy that never depletes,
a motor of the soul breathing through us.
In every rhyme lies a small revolution,
in every verse, a promise
that the universe will not cease.
And thus, the poet writes—
not to unravel the mystery,
but to keep it alive.
In every word is a flame
that ignites the worlds to come,
an endless dance of creation
in the face of oblivion.
And in this dance,
Poetry finds its God,
and God finds His silence.
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