Before the naming, before the first mouth learned to speak,
There was the pattern—spiral, pulse, the patience of the meek.
It hums inside the nautilus, the nebula, the bone,
In the river carving limestone, in the blood you call your own.

It has no mouth to speak, yet teaches what remains:
The fossil bound in stone, erosion’s slow refrains.
What gripped too hard is gone; what relented, stayed.
Such is the law the silent pattern made.

See how the stone that fought the river died,
Worn to sand and scattered to the tide.
See how the reed endures—it learned to bend.
The reed remains. What yields, the years defend.

And you who carry marrow, vein, and breath,
Who walk the line between your birth and death—
Will you be stone, insisting on your shape?
Or learn to bow, to flow, and be reshaped?

The one who bows does not become less strong—
Gentle water broke the mountain all along.
To bend is to persist—to hold, to stay.
The humble last. The patient find the way.

The stars burn out. The galaxies unwind.
The current does not grieve what time unbinds.
It turns through collapse as it turns through Earth—
No sorrow, no regret—only rebirth.

You are not separate from the spinning whole—
The pattern moves through marrow, vein, and soul.
What flows in you will outlast what resists.
You are the river. You are what persists.

.