(National Poetry day 2014)
In the beginning was the word.
The word was graceful and the word was strong.
The word floated in the formless void
and the darkness did not understand it.
The word spoke itself. It spoke to itself.
The darkness was not listening.
Cradled in chaos, it sang itself to sleep,
awoke and hugged itself for joy.
One thing led to another. The word
vibrated, swelled in ecstasy, begat
another word. The darkness disapproved.
Delirious with harmony, the words
whirled and spoke and sang, though only they
could hear themselves, the darkness was stone deaf.
Careening madly through the empty dark,
the words collided, danced and sparked, gave birth
to strings and clouds and spirals of new words
that coalesced, hanging in constellations,
all sparkly in the newly-spoken light.
The darkness was unimpressed. But the word
was pleased and saw that it was good.
And the word rested from its labours.
And the evening and the morning were the first day.