The world was carved in trembled tone,
A pulse enwreathed in flesh and bone.
Each atom hummed, each sinew swayed,
A song of things the void obeyed.

The stars still burn in measured rhyme,
Yet shudder soft in threads of time.
What hands first struck the tuning key?
What force first hummed eternity?

Yet even worlds, when turned to dust,
Still thrum in echoes laced with trust.
For even death, though vast and wide,
Still breathes within the cosmic tide.

And though the spine of all may bend,
Its echoes weave, they do not end.
For silence, though it folds the past,
Still hums where birth and ruin clash.