Before light,
the waiting.

Before sound,
the listening.

Time leaned forward,
but did not move.

Silence
was its first creation.

Then,
a tremor,
a thought of heat.

Atoms gathered
as if remembering each other.

Space unfolded,
slow as breath,
measuring itself
against nothing.

Stars came
not as fire,
but as intention.

Their glow
took aeons to arrive,
and in that lateness
the world began.

All beginnings
are aftermaths
we misname as dawn.

We are born
into echoes,
our first cry
already old.

And yet,
the light goes on
becoming.