The One looked upon a vale of the void,
and struck as a harp of the possibilities
therein, He hovered, and heard Himself
draw forth strings from his long fingertips.
Lo! at their ends became musicians.

The strings he stretched crisscrossing end to end
of the silent valley, and sat back pleased,
intent on the symphony that sounded, after
just a little practice, upon his word,

They sang, and from the silver threads
dripped Arda, wrung red, a matchstick flame,
sticky, sloshing,
like an awesome baby.

God heard wailing and turned
to where he had long had the corner of an
all-seeing Eye; his star performer
gone awry, his marching tune
banging up, a right bopping anti-madrigal.

God smiled at the vain song. Upped the treble. Then,
causing Time, checked it, and said,
'Let there be a Beginning.'