Primordial Echo
—The Breath That Stayed—
Ere star nor syllable of night was forming,
there was only silence, unremembering.
Then something broke it—quietly, not warning,
a rush of fire through blackness, warming.
Worlds were flung out in endless turning,
colliding, fading, learning, burning.
The first cosmos, still inwardly yearning,
did not yet know the shape of its becoming.
A small blue world from fracture forming,
no thought of crown, no name deserving.
The moon remains from that old wounding,
a slow return of what is not returning.
Earth tilts twenty-three degrees in leaning,
and from that fault, the seasons are meaning.
A bird cries once into the morning,
as if the dark had just stopped holding.
Eggs beneath wing, quiet stirring,
wind through valley, softly howling.
Rain on stone like patient knocking,
time itself almost listening.
The breath that rose is still not ending,
through bone and root and dust continuing.
I saw it once in a room dimming,
a man alone, a letter trembling.
A cup gone cold, a photograph turning,
outside, the stars kept on burning.
No answer came to all his wondering,
only a leaf beside him opening.
Small, uncalled, almost unmeaning,
yet something in it kept him breathing.
Not voice, not sign, not grand revealing,
just life insisting on continuing.
The same force that shaped all forming,
that moves through dark without announcing.
We are not ends, but breath still going,
not final thought, but meaning flowing.
From fire to flood to blood and naming,
to memory’s hand still gently holding.
Stars may fade and seas stop rolling,
yet still this breath is never closing.
Not while a seed through dark is breaking,
not while a child is softly waking.
The cosmos is one long exhaling,
and we are what it keeps on saying.
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