The Fire of Origins
Everything is born in red.
A red that does not paint, but consumes, burns, swirls, and gives birth.
The world opens up in a whirlwind of fire,
as if matter itself were learning to breathe.
Creation is almost violent: it bursts forth, it tears itself apart.
A glowing sphere unfolds, where the sun and the moon are born in the same pulse.
At the heart of this storm, a tree appears.
It does not struggle. It takes root.
Silent, it passes through the molten matter.
It anchors itself, motionless at the heart of the chaos,
like a point of stability in the world’s conflagration.
Around it, life hesitates, then springs forth.
Fish glide through the invisible,
Butterflies brush against the nascent air,
An owl opens its eyes to the first night.
Everything falls into place without any apparent order,
as if the world were learning to exist at the very moment it was being created.
And in this primordial turmoil,
the tree stands firm, the world begins to exist.
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