Sand moves.
Sand sighs.
The desert states in sound.
–––
Grain upon grain,
the slow collapse of light,
the shiver of silica
a voice born from friction.
It whistles beneath the wind,
a hymn of movement,
a memory of glass.
–––
What is dust,
but a fallen star remembering heat?
What is song,
but the ache of geometry learning to count?
–––
Now the scales unfold.
Interstellar sands collide
cloud upon cloud,
ion on ion,
and the void begins to murmur.
–––
Solar winds rub the edges of worlds.
Rings grind.
Comets hiss through ice and flame.
Every orbit sings.
–––
Galaxies meet in slow embrace,
their arms of dust entwined.
The dark itself trembles.
Gravity bows.
Creation is percussion.
–––
Cluster to cluster,
field to field,
the choir expands
a harmony without centre,
a tone without end.
–––
Then the multiverse,
those veiled infinities
resonate through one another.
A vast and voiceless mantra,
too large to name.
–––
Infinity sings itself.
The friction of being.
Breathing becomes the breath becoming.
–––
Friction of being
spark of the whole
this is creation
song of the soul.
Thorn and Benediction 
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