With Word all things came¦
you say with words yourself.
Word Magick, a pale fabric
stitched to life with sound.
We have sound¦
 
The hum of the drums grumbles us together
with the whoosh of wind, and the roots of blood
remembering when we learned to sing in
the Whirling Before the Word.
 
For once all was chaotic stillness
and from there we moved to dance apart¦
but all agree in sacred rhythm
to the truth of telling, in turns.
 
The sun torn as exit, as the leaving
Umvelinqangi attests to us as to whether
the mighty ineffable may be expressed,
by definition, by words¦
 
It may most clearly be cohered
By Ahriman as intertwined
Estrangement in the wake of eons,
As Ahura is so inclined.
So dark, so light, a sun, a moon,
the punitive radiance, smoulder spilling shear
to the tender embraces of argent ice. 
 
singing life to the whirl of the landsound,
wind washing stone and body away;
when once our voices rang as gold
and all the Highest did behold
one's might, as legends yet unborn
were carried forward, word withal...
For when the self of body
in movement most profound
finds the timbre reality, who were we
to envelope its spectrum unsound?
 
yet the joyful singing tongues of gods
were cut, sputtering Their blood
as culture gave riches and our singing turned
breathless, into naming -words
guttergrowled to own.