Then came the poets;and all hell broke loose

First there were hunters and gatherers,
men who knew the patience of forests,
who read the language of wind
and measured time by the sun’s slow breathing.

They took only what hunger asked for,
and the earth, like a quiet mother,
kept no account of their debts.

Then came the poets;
and all hell broke loose.

For poets do not merely live in the world,
they set fire to it with questions.
They found the ache no hunter could track,
they chase the prey that has no footprints.
A hunter wounds the body,
but a poet wounds the night itself,
splitting silence
until stars begin to bleed meaning.

Kings grew restless at their verses,
lovers found new ways to suffer,
and even the moon, once content in her distance,
began leaning closer to hear
what madness men were singing below.

For the arrow kills once,
but a line of poetry
can haunt generations.
And so the world changed,
not by the sword alone,
nor by the hand that tills the soil,
but by the fragile, dangerous craft
of turning pain into music.

Somewhere, even now,
a poet sits in the ruins of his own heart,smiling,
for he knows
that chaos is merely another name
for truth spoken too beautifully to ignore.