Upon the open stage of history’s play, Rise, humans, crowned with a nimbus of thought, Language, our tool, has lit the ancient gray, Where silence dwelt, culture is now begot.
Through words we sculpted time, created laws, Unfurled maps to stars that blink above, Yet beneath intellect’s sharp-clawed applause, Lies the heart’s mystery, untouched, unloved.
No beast, nor bird, nor any living bloom, Holds our riddle, carved in the bones of time, More than thought, in our silence we bloom, For intelligence is but a pantomime.
So let go of belief’s illusory veil, Be your truth, the wind beneath your sail.