What did they call you
before there were names?

Before the river knew its path,
before the root had learned to grow,
before the first small living mouth
opened underneath the sun,
you were there
No face
No voice
No shape
that anything could understand

We gave names to the rain
We gave names to the stars
But who could name
what came before the tongue?

No name for the oldest god
No word could ever hold it
Older than the forest
Older than the blood

No name for the oldest god
No prayer could ever reach it
We only make little sounds
around something without a name

The elders carved a thousand signs
None of them were yours
They sang a thousand sacred words
None of them were true
Not because they lied
Not because they failed
A cup cannot contain the rain
A mouth cannot contain
what made the mouth

Neither can I

No name for the oldest god
No word could ever hold it
Older than the forest
Older than the blood

No name for the oldest god
No prayer could ever reach it
We only make little sounds
around something without a name

Perhaps you were here
before there was a here
Perhaps you were waiting
before there was time
Perhaps "before"
means nothing to you
Perhaps "you"
means nothing too

What am I supposed to call you?

Nothing
That is better

Do not name
what named you
Do not shape
what shaped your hands
Do not ask the oldest silence
to become small enough for words
Just listen
Not for a voice
Not for an answer
Listen
until listening disappears

No name
No face
No word
No form

Before root
Before blood
Before breath
Before...
before...

I don't know
what I'm saying

No name for the oldest god
No mouth was made to speak it
Older than the forest
Older than the dream

No name for the oldest god
And now I understand
Every name is only something
we place between ourselves
and what is there

So I will not name you
I will not ask you to become smaller
I will only open my mouth...
and let the sound come

Do not name
what named you