Before the first breath of wind learned its name,
before the stars were sewn like seeds into the dark —
there was a sound.
Not heard, but felt
in the marrow of unborn mountains,
in the hunger of an ocean
not yet taught to roar.
The heavens opened their throats
and sang in frequencies
that split silence from silence,
that taught light the meaning of direction.
This was the creed —
not carved in stone or scripture,
but woven into the wingbeat of every hawk,
the slow exhale of glaciers,
the way a child's laugh
rises without permission
and will not be called back.
The angels did not strum harps.
They became the vibration —
each one a note held long past comfort,
trembling at the edge of what sound can bear
before it becomes
something holier than music.
And we —
we are the echo
of that first impossible chord,
still ringing,
still reaching,
still trying to remember
the song
we were made from.