In the silence before everything begins,
when time lingers in the cradle of potential,
what whispers to the mind of the cosmos?
Light, a silent confessor, tangles with shadows.
What is its truth, when it speaks in absence,
painting reality with invisible ink?
Imagine the dawn,
not as light breaking,
but as a promise
unveiling
in the heart's shadow.
Does the horizon remember
what it has never seen?
Shapes of thought, drifting beyond the visible.
Alone in the echo of the first light,
the observer writes
with the ghosts of stars
in a sky that holds
everything
and nothing.