Who is the Creator, the One beyond sight?
The weaver of fire, the sculptor of light?
He spoke, and the stars leapt wild into form,
Yet held back His power to make man soft and warm.
I think of the sun—how it burns without end,
How galaxies swirl where no limits extend.
Yet He, in His wisdom, formed us so small,
Delicate whispers compared to it all.
He is powerful, He is gentle,
He carves with hands both vast and nimble.
Like learning the strokes of a peony’s grace,
Each petal drawn with a slow, soft trace.
In old Hanoi, where time bends and flows,
With careful intent, my brushstroke slows.
I feel Him there, in the art I create,
In every curve, in each deliberate weight.
At Train Street, faces flicker past,
So different, yet made to last.
Versions of beauty, diverse yet aligned,
Reflections of Him in color and time.
How He must love the spectrum He’s spun—
Not just the bright, not just the one.
But shades of many, like dawn and dusk,
A world designed with infinite trust.
To ponder the Maker is a gift to receive,
A wonder that breathes, a call to believe.
For my journey is richer, my heart full of awe,
To walk with the One who imagined it all.
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