By Panagiotis Tzannetatos
The silence that wove the world
In the beginning,
there was no light,
nor darkness—
only a breath,
waiting to become time.
And then came the words,
fragments of flame
in frozen chaos.
They said nothing.
They simply were,
like the gaze of the unborn.
The first human
did not say I am,
but rather:
Who dreams me
behind the eyelids of the sky?
He learned gravity
when he fell from his own hope.
And freedom?
It was the price
of remembering what cannot be changed.
I speak of hours
that build life
with bricks of silence.
Of children
playing with broken clocks,
of mothers
cooking prayers
on the doorstep of war.
There are days
when the world burns
without fire—
and others
when a seed of hope
takes root in concrete.
And if something endures,
it is this:
that man is not
the center of the world—
but the spark of meaning
within senseless chaos.
What he touches, he shapes.
What he remembers, he saves.
And what he dares to dream,
he may one day bring to life,
through word—
or silence.
