Made Of Echoes

Before the first bright breath of dawn,

before the dark knew how to yawn,

there stirred a pulse, a hidden seam,

a tremor older than a dream.

Frequencies in folding air,

threads of sound from nowhere there,

rising into megahertz,

like sparks that taught the void to hurt.

And even vacuum, vast and still,

was not beyond some deeper will;

the empty hush, the silent night,

was shaped by something out of sight.

For nothing rests without a name,

and all that is must come from flame—

from cause, from craft, from seed, from source,

from hidden law and ancient force.

Even lords, in shadowed halls,

with iron crowns and marble walls,

are born from what came first unseen,

from deeper roots beneath the scene.

So let the stars confess their debt,

to echoes not completed yet;

to wave, to word, to breath, to bone,

to what made all the made things known.

And if the cosmos asks, “From where?”

the answer hangs in charged dark air:

that every power, every throne,

begins as something not alone.