When Light First Spoke

The hush was first. Not silence—

but the breath before a violin sighs.

Then came light, brushed in pale syllables across the brow of the earth,

like a lover who does not wake you,

only watches you sleep.

It touched the stones with a painter’s longing,

each crack a story retold in gold.

Windows gathered it shyly,

like girls with secrets folded in their sleeves.

Leaves turned their bellies to listen.

The wind bowed its head,

and even shadows softened.

In that hour, the world was made again

not with thunder, but with gentleness—

as though mercy had taken a form

and decided to shine in a boom.