From the depths the Word arose:
A glyph of mystery,
Time without history,
The soul of destiny.
Spoken forth the Word was sound:
And mind struck down at it,
And matter fell from it,
And spirit flew from it.
Echoes of the Word remained:
The cord of life was tense
Above the pool of sense
Where ripples faded hence.
The silent word is hidden still:
The serpent's sleeping eye,
The eggshell of the sky,
The truth behind the lie.