Before the Word
Before the word was ever born,
When thought was wild and mind was torn
Between the thunder and the flame,
We dreamed in silence, none to name.
A rustle meant the tiger’s eye,
A scent could speak of fruit nearby.
The cry of kin, the hush of night—
Each stirred the soul without the rite
Of spoken sound, of grammar’s law—
We knew, we felt, we lived in awe.
With hands we shaped our first intent,
With eyes we asked, with backs we bent.
A gaze could warn, a grip could bind,
And every motion shaped the mind.
No need for “love,” when warmth was near—
A shoulder touched, a grunt sincere.
No need for “fear,” when shadows loomed—
We ran, we hid, we knew we’d doomed.
And still within our dreams we trace
That ancient, wordless, primal place—
Where thought first stirred its silent art,
And feeling was the beating heart.