The Slow Consumption of the Distant Dawn

The light, not born here,
but driven by cosmic fires,
departs like a golden cry,
an echo lit in the blind womb
of an unknown genesis.
It is not merely traveling,
but a subtle yielding,
a drop-by-drop offering of being.

It crosses voids of time,
oceanic silences where the echo dies.
Every millennium a held breath,
every galaxy a torn veil
from its primeval integrity.
It does not lose form, it does not bend,
but lightens the weight of being,
becomes a dream at the edge of memory.

When it brushes the eyelid of the world,
it is no longer the arrogant flame,
but a whisper of shadow,
a weary wisdom that settles down.
It carries the pollen of extinct stars,
the dust of extinguished universes.
It is the last glimmer of an ancient faith,
that only asks to be seen, not consumed.