The Language Before The Fall Poem by Yasmin Hemmat

In the beginning was the Word,
and the Word was Pain.
Pain was the prelapsarian language.
Pain is the crimson apple
Eve plucked
from the Tree of Knowledge.
Pain is the phoenix
that burned in the fire
and never rose again
from its own ashes.
Pain is the blue lotus
that never emerged
from the mire,
that never came into bloom.
And in the beginning
was the Word.
And the Word
was Pain.
And I
was born of Pain.
I am the ivy vine
that coils itself
around your soul
until it becomes one with you.
I am the mirror
that lays bare
your naked soul
before your own eyes.
I am the earthen vessel,
buried deep beneath the soil,
bearing within my womb,
for a thousand years, b
the ashes of the Beloved.
I am the tangled patterns
of a forgotten, decaying carpet,
the silent witness
to the lovemaking
of two lovers
who, in the end,
consigned one another
to oblivion.
I am the fire of love,
the fire
that consumes
the lover's soul.
And I
was in the beginning.
And in the beginning
was the Word.
And the Word
was Pain.
And there was nothing else.