WORD

Word was the first born
Of a Universe spinning in bedlam
The rhythm of rain
And symphony of rivers

Word was the first to ripen on the
Wrinkled skin of a half naked monk
His core ablaze
In the quest of freedom

Word was the first to erase Sun
To evaporate sea, reveal crystals of salt
Word did not know black and white,
Nor grey

Word was the first to draw a question mark
On the painted walls of pretensions
And draw the cracks
That grew with time

Word was also the first to be shot at,
It fluttered frail wings
Made a croaking noise
Collapsed onto Earth, yet Indefatigable

From beginning to end
Immortal is the fiery word
The tip of word tongue blooms
With flowers of revolution