What if the world began,
not with the fiery birth of stars,
nor the silent shift of oceans
on stony shores,
but with the whisper of wings,
a soft breath,
on the verge of being?
What if creation itself
was not a burst of brilliance,
but a slow unfurling,
a delicate revealing
of the hidden and unseen,
like the opening of a hand,
or the gentle turn of a face
towards the light?
Would we then see the world,
not as a place of boundaries,
but as a field of whispers,
where each breath, each sigh,
becomes part of the endless story,
the quiet song
of what it means
to be alive?
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