Beneath the sun,
the rivers ran in circles,
pouring into seas that never filled.
Generations came,
vanished like dust in a shaft of light,
and still the same songs were sung.
He called it meaningless,
chasing the wind,
grasping at smoke.
A world turning on a tired axis,
where toil and wisdom
both sank into the same grave.
But what he could not see,
was spring hiding in the soil.
That even futility has a season,
and no winter lasts forever.
The wind he could not catch
was the Breath meant to catch him.
The silence under the sun
was waiting for a voice
beyond it.
And when that Word came,
it broke the cycle.
Meaning stood in flesh,
and eternity entered time.
In Luminance 