Thrice Silent

I am silent before the mystery.
Creation: out of nothing,
something comes — it happens
every day. And I look
at every new thing, wondering
at the miracle, that by
some rearrangement of these
ancient particles, that which has
never been seen before
emerges, baffling the entropy
that everything is heir to.
Where does each new dawn
emerge from? The sun and sky
are neither born nor die,
yet each day begins as if
it is the first hour of all creation,
after an eternity of darkness.
I am silent before the mystery.
I do not believe all of it
is written somewhere, already,
for from where did that come,
then? I believe in beginnings.
We are given such power,
that something original
may be crafted, this day,
this hour: something that
beholds the wonder of the dawn,
golden beams that have
never struck you before,
however many dawns you
have witnessed, and invokes
such a phenomenon of feeling,
that no one before you
has felt just this way, just
this now, and for one moment,
you are the first and the last.
I am silent before the mystery.