Before the Book

The book is made of burning wings.
Of mountains fallen from the sky.
The aches that lost stars know alone.

Each page is a different silence of the moon.
Each word is another way the sun disappears.
The book is a leak in time’s heartbeat.

The sky is threading dreams into your blood.
The ashes of a mother’s tears are ink.
A lion’s shadow carries an infant to heaven’s steps.

Isn’t the book’s orginary silence obscene?
Observe the cruel intimacy of the miraculous.
There aren’t any actual pages.
There isn’t any book because it’s you.