Out of silence,
out of song
rise the mountains and the seas.
Out of mud,
out of slime,
ignited by a spark divine,
crawls the worm,
swims the fish.
The birds their muddied feathers clean.
Out of thought,
out of dreams,
springs the seed, the bud, the egg.
Beneath the trees the Lovers slept
awaiting the eternal beat,
while up above, in balance kept,
the stars formed patterns in the sky,
the sun and moon held pace with time.
Now sounds the drum
of wood and skin
to summon up the tribal kin
to join their hands
and stretch their limbs
in complex, crafted, leaping steps.
The dance of life and death begins.
Warmed by winds and gentle rains,
the harvest fruit is gathered in
with care and deep respect.
Spring, summer, winters cold,
all was pure and full of light,
before the weary world grew old,
before the garden, in neglect,
began it’s dreadful Fall