The Voice said "light," and the Voice was light, and time was part of the structure of light, so the Voice was time as well.
The Voice said "protons" and "neutrons" and "electrons" and "quarks" , and became protons and neutrons and electrons and quarks as well, for their mass and movement was the energy, the spirit, the breath of the Voice, and their structure was the shape, the articulation, the word, of the Voice.
They could not be other than the Voice that spoke them.
The breath of the Voice was strong, and the protons and neutrons and electrons and photons collided and swarmed together and grew hot, and the Voice said "Space—a firmament, a pushing back of the boundaries of the Darkness, of the Silence, of the Deep—a garden, walled off from the Wilderness of Nothing."
And the Voice began to grow, to push the silence back, push the tohu wa bohu—the chaos, the nothing—away, to give room to the swarm of nouns the Voice had spoken.
And as the space grew, the swarm cooled, and the Voice began to form phrases.
Electrons attached to protons and neutrons; the Voice spoke atoms now, and the atoms gathered together.
The Voice moved from phrases to sentences, and became a poem, a universe, and the words collided and gathered and formed stars, formed galaxies, and planets, and comets, formed nebula, and black holes.
And the Poem grew and shaped itself for ages, and was a very fine Poem.
It was full of the rhythms of radiation, the harmonies of light waves, the music of the spheres, the free interplay of sameness and difference.
It was filled with the rhyme of galaxies, each the same yet different, of solar systems, similar yet distinct, of suns with planets and suns without, of planets with moons and planets without.
The Poem was perfect, balanced with infinite and intricate balances, subtle and majestic, wild and precise.
It was everything it should be.
It was done.
And Doneness was also a kind of Silence, until the Voice spoke again.
And what it said was this: