The heavens sprawl, a boundless, burning scroll,
scribed by the hand of the Eternal.
The sky stretches vast and aching,
a hollowed-out cathedral where light and dark entwine,
where the hush of dawn spills gold upon the earth
and the hush of night unspools its veiled infinities.

The sun rises, a sovereign in flame,
dragging the day from the belly of shadow,
spilling fire upon the fields,
setting the hills alight with something ancient,
something not yet spoken but known.
It moves westward, slow and certain,
a measured arc drawn by hands unseen,
hands that shaped the first dawn,
hands that will cradle the last.

Come dusk, the heavens burn,
bruised crimson and dying gold,
the last breath of day exhaled upon the world.
Night unfurls its black vestments,
a silent dominion where stars hang cold and distant,
their light born in a time before time,
their glow a whisper of something endless.

No voice speaks, yet the silence roars.
No words are written, yet the message stands eternal.
The heavens bear their witness, unerring, unbowed,
carved in fire and shadow, wind and stone.
What mind could dream such vastness?
What voice could call forth the stars?
They sing, though no ear may hear,
and their hymn will never end.