Long ago,
far in the misty past,
a word was spoken
to the rushing wind,
to the cold waters,
to the consuming fire,
to the solid earth,
and thought lost.

And lost it was,
for those who looked,
looked wrong:
on aging tongues,
in dusty tomes,
carved in rock.

The word was not there.

But the word was there.
The fire ate it,
the wind blew it,
the water coursed it,
the earth remembered it,
and the word survived.

But those who searched
for the word of power
did not ask the sky,
did not ask the ground,
did not ask the hearth,
did not ask the sea.

And so, it remains lost to all.

All but those who will ask
and look between
and hear it whispered
like a prayer.