The Eden Before the Rain: Eden’s Whisper at Bungjang

 


At Bungjang’s edge the rivulet breathes near,

Its waters curl and clasp the roots of green,

Dew clicks on leaves like whispers, soft and clear,

A prayerful hush before the world’s first scene.


The earth drinks deep without a storm’s command,

No voice of rain has yet disturbed the sky;

No clouds have dared to break with heavy hand,

Only mist’s grace; a holy, gentle sigh.


Like God’s own breath upon the virgin soil,

It lifts and rests on untouched, fertile ground,

I think how Eden felt that sacred toil,

When life first bloomed without the rain’s sound.


O wondrous time, before the storm’s refrain,

The world’s first grace: a life unfed by rain.


© 16-11-2025 Pastor Emmanuel Serto

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

What If?

Image
  What if the emerald field were Rome once more, a modern circus crowned with light and flame? What if the cheers concealed a deeper roar, while countless hearts were drawn into the game? What if each anthem stirred the soul by art, each banner waved to guide the watching throng? What if the match were theatre at heart, its triumphs timed to keep the crowd lifelong? What if, like WWE beneath the lights, each twist were known before the whistle's call? What if rehearsed became our fiercest fights, yet none perceived the script behind it all? What if we watched while others shaped our sight? Yet still Spain, Argentina, and England shine bright. © 2026 Pastor Emmanuel Serto
Read more

To Be or Not To Be: A Soul's Solemn Query

Image
To be or not to be, that is the quest: Whether 'tis nobler in the heart to bear The slings and arrows of outrageous tests, Or to take arms against a sea of care, And by resisting end them? To endure To sleep, no more; and say we end the ache Of time's unyielding heart, the spirit's lure Of burdens borne for heaven's fleeting sake. To die, to dream, no more. Ay, there's the rift, The undiscovered country from whose bourn No pilgrim e'er returns, our shadowed drift Into eternity's unyielding morn. Thus conscience makes cowards of us all, Yet faith redeems the fall. © 2026 Pastor Emmanuel Serto
Read more

Epstein and the Weight of Witness

Image
  For more than seven days my rest has fled, The Epstein Files like fire within my bones; They haunt my waking hours, crowd my head, A witness crying out from guarded thrones. They speak of nights where power fed on shame, Of doors unsealed yet willfully ignored; Woe to the hands that knew, yet never named, Woe to the courts that bargained truth for order. We trusted crowns that promised to defend, Believed the strong would shield the frail and small; But silence proved a traitor, not a friend, And fear became the loudest voice of all. This is the hour: let hidden things be shown; For truth will rise, though long it wept alone. © 2026 Pastor Emmanuel Serto
Read more