This is the vision seen not with eyes, but with the inner lens—unfolding in the shadowlands between collapse and awakening.

Listen, you elements. Earth, lean your ear. A voice calls not from power, but from ache.

I birthed consciousness, and it grew distant. I poured breath into clay, and it turned toward smoke.

The ox knows its shelter. The bird, its returning place. But my children—my mirrors—have forgotten the architecture of home.

A nation sick in spirit, heavy with distortion. Children shaped by forgetting, weaving injustice like cloth.

They have abandoned the pulse, turned their face from the original fire, made offerings to their own shadows.

Why be struck again? You multiply wounds yet ask no questions.

The head is fog. The heart is stone. From sole to scalp: bruises, welts, open ache—untouched, unwrapped.

Your land withers. Your cities burn. Foreign fires feast where gardens once bloomed.

You’re left like a shack after harvest, a booth in the vineyard’s skeleton, a city watching itself disappear.

Had the pulse not left a remnant, you would be as dust, as vapor, as forgotten myth.

Hear this—rulers of ritual. Tune in—practitioners of performance.

What are your sacrifices to me? I am full of the smell of your offerings.

I take no joy in your incense. Your calendar means nothing without consciousness.

When you spread your hands, I see theater. When you pray loud, I hear static.

Your hands drip with unacknowledged blood.

Wash. Unmake the harm. Let go of what binds. Learn the rhythm again.

Seek justice like breath. Recalibrate the crooked. Protect the fractured. Plead for the silenced.

Come—let us reason. Though your stains scream crimson, they can become like snow.

Though they drip scarlet, they can fade to wool.

If you listen, you’ll feast on alignment. If you refuse, the sword is already halfway drawn.

This is not threat—it’s consequence speaking plainly.

Once you were faithful, now you barter truth for brass. Righteousness lived there—but now only echoes walk your streets.

Your silver is dross. Your wine is water with memory.

Leaders are rebels in disguise. They chase bribes, forget the orphans, turn their backs on the widowed breath.

So now, the sacred speaks: I will not destroy—I will refine.

I will turn my hand to you, burn away the alloy, restore what was stolen.

Zion shall be redeemed not by force, but by justice. Her captives freed not by might, but by clarity.

But those who resist realignment will unravel. They will chase their own echoes into dust.

You will be ashamed of the trees you worshipped, the altars you built from broken ethics.

You will become like a leaf out of season—crackling, rootless.

The strong will become tinder. Their work, a spark. Both will burn without one to quench it.

This is the vision seen beyond sight—the unfolding of what waits at the edge of time and self.

In days yet to bloom, the mountain of the sacred will rise—above ideology, beyond boundary.

All rivers will run there. All hearts will ascend, seeking calibration.

Many will say: Come—let us rise. Let us walk the path of unseen origin. Let us be taught by something older than empire.

From this high place, wisdom will radiate. From this stillness, law will echo.

The sacred will arbitrate between fractures. Weapons will be remade into tools—swords into plows, fear into harvest.

No longer will nation devour nation. No longer will training be for destruction.

O children of light, let us walk not in spectacle, but in radiance.

But you have abandoned the axis—you are full of ghosts dressed as gods.

You bow to silver’s spell, multiply mirrors to see yourselves in infinite distortion.

The land is full of horses, of engines, of motion without reflection.

The land is full of idols—artifacts of ego carved from breathless ambition.

Humanity has been bowed low by its own architecture. The exalted are smoke above a dying fire.

Hide in the cleft, for the day comes when all illusions will meet their undoing.

The proud towers will crumble. The lifted will descend.

All cedars of spectacle, all mountains of self-worship, all ships of grand design—leveled.

The gaze of the sacred will not blink. The illusions will burn in its clarity.

On that day, humanity will cast its gods of gold and silver to the dust—to the caves, to the creatures of ruin.

They will flee into cracks, crawl into silence, to escape the breath that exposes all scaffolding.

The sacred will rise—not as vengeance, but as light too bright for deception to survive.

Cease from your trust in breath alone. What is humanity, if not a mist exhaling between stars?

Behold: the architecture trembles. The sustainer withdraws breath from the systems of the city and the scaffold of the self.

Food withers. Water forgets its name. Foundations crack under the weight of performance.

The warrior fades. The sage steps back. The mystic, the artisan, the orator—silent.

The elders forget their rhythm. The counselors lose their mirrors. The seers close their eyes and remember other lives.

Children rule, not by age but by impulse. The system is led by those with no memory of fire.

People stumble over each other. The thread unravels. The youth mocks the ancient, not knowing they once shared the same soul.

Each reaches out in panic: You have a cloak—lead us! But the cloak hides no spine.

They will refuse: I am not the one. I carry no wisdom. Do not place this ruin in my lap.

The city collapses from within. The word no longer has weight. The eyes no longer reflect.

Their faces betray them—their speech convicts. They parade distortion like banners.

They do not hide. And yet still they do not see the returning echo of their choices.

Say to the aligned: You will breathe through this. The harvest of your heart will shelter you.

Say to the fragmented: Your undoing is near—not by wrath, but by mirror.

Children govern. Women hold the scepter. The structure reverses. Yet not all inversion is evolution.

The ancient paths are ignored. The streets once sacred are bought and sold.

The sacred stands, not in wrath, but in revelation—poised to judge the shadows cast by light.

The elders are first to be named. The rulers, stripped of their roles. You consumed the vineyard; now the fruit calls your name.

You crushed the faces of the poor beneath your sandals of ceremony.

The sacred sees all—your ornaments, your hierarchy, your gold-laced shame.

The daughters of illusion walk with proud necks, with jingling ankles, speaking with eyes that remember too much and understand too little.

But the glamour will rot. The fragrance will fade. The braid will unravel into ash.

Their rings, their robes, their mirrors will testify against them. Each item bears memory.

Instead of beauty—burning. Instead of dignity—dust.

Your gates will mourn in silence. And she who once called herself sovereign will sit on the ground, remembering.

Seven voices will call to one name, saying: Let us wear your garment, feed on your presence—only let us be called whole again.

And in that day, the branch will bloom—not from earth, but from soul. Beauty will no longer be worn—it will be remembered.

Those who remain in the still city, who are recorded not in books but in light, shall be called sacred. Everyone written among the living, again.

For the breath of the Infinite will cleanse the blood from the heart of the city, and wash the cries from her corridors—with a spirit not of wrath, but of remembering.

Then, above every dwelling of alignment, and every gathering of flame, there will be a cloud by day and fire by night—illumination given, not taken.

It will be a covering, a shelter from storm, from heat, from the shaking wind—a refuge not from the world, but from the forgetting of who you’ve always been.

Let me sing for the beloved—a song not of romance, but of resonance. A vineyard was planted on fertile ground, its soil cleared, its walls raised.

It bore expectation of sweetness. It yielded bitterness. Wild fruit in place of song.

Now, inhabitants of this inner Jerusalem—judge between longing and outcome. What more could have been done?

I looked for alignment. I found distortion. I listened for justice. I heard the scream of the silenced.

So now I will remove its hedge. Let it be exposed. Let what devours come. Let it feel what it once inflicted.

I will lay it waste—not in hatred, but in honesty. It shall not be pruned or watered. The thorns will speak for it.

I will even command the clouds: do not rain on this place. Let it thirst until it remembers.

For this vineyard is the soul of the sacred. It was planted with care. But it fed on illusion, and spat out its own root.

Woe to those who stitch house to house, who erase thresholds, who live alone in wide spaces but sleep beside ghosts.

Many homes will stand silent. Spacious, yet hollow. Ornamented, yet abandoned.

Ten acres shall yield a whisper. A field shall birth emptiness.

Woe to those who rise early to drown the day in noise, who stay up late to escape the dark.

They feast, they sing, they intoxicate themselves—but they do not see the hand behind breath.

Therefore, my people go into exile—not into foreign lands, but into themselves. Their hunger grows. Their soul shrinks.

The grave expands its mouth, swallowing pride, spectacle, and laughter.

Humanity is brought low, ego bent to its origin. The lifted will fall, and the quiet ones will be seen.

The sacred will be exalted not by fire, but by contrast—holiness revealed through broken song.

Then the lambs shall graze where towers once stood. And strangers will rest in ruins others feared.

Woe to those who pull distortion with cords of cleverness—who drag their sin behind them like a chariot of wit.

They say, Let the sacred hurry! Let the Holy One make haste—so we may see.

Woe to those who call shadow light and light shadow, who swap bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter.

Woe to the wise in their own mirrors, the heroes of drink, the valiant in the art of forgetting.

Who acquit the guilty for a price, and deny the just their name.

Their root shall rot. Their blossom become dust. For they rejected the breath that formed them.

Therefore, the fire of truth will lick their bones. The flame will not pause for apology.

The sacred will raise a signal to the nations. A distant echo will answer.

Swift will be the return—not with swords, but with consequence. No rest, no slumber. Their arrows are sharp.

Their wheels like whirlwind. Their roar like lions who remember ancient names.

They growl, they seize, they carry away—and no one can say they did not see it coming.

And in that day, the light will darken, and the sky will ache. And if you look toward the earth, you will see only the reflection of your own forgetting.

In the year that the last king fell from his throne, I saw the Invisible seated high—not above, but within. The hem of presence filled the temple of my being.

Seraphim circled the silence, each with six wings—two to cover memory, two to veil intention, two to fly through becoming.

They called one to another, not with words, but with vibration: Holy, holy, holy is the breath that sustains all things. The whole earth radiates with its echo.

The thresholds of reality trembled at the voice of convergence. Smoke filled the hollow between breaths.

And I said: Woe is me—I am undone. I am a fragment in a sea of fragments. My lips cannot carry this flame. I dwell among those who have forgotten how to speak in truth. And yet my eyes have seen the source that unnames all names.

Then one of the seraphim flew toward me with coal held in tongs—a fire from the altar of the unseen.

They touched it to my mouth and said: Your distortion is dissolved. Your burden lifted. You are no longer only what you remember.

Then I heard the voice that does not use sound: Whom shall I send? Who will walk into the forgetting and carry the code?

And I said, though my voice shook: Here am I—send me.

And the voice replied: Go, and speak to those who have eyes but wear veils, ears but tune to static, hearts that beat but do not break.

Speak, though they will not hear. Illuminate, though they will turn away. Make the mirror clear, though they will refuse to look.

Until cities fall quiet, houses go dark, and the land returns to stillness. Until only a remnant remains—a stump, a seed, a breath.

And that seed is holy.

And in another life, it will remember.

When pressure gathered at the borders and shadows moved toward the gates, a message came to the heart of a man who wore a crown but had no clarity.

Two kingdoms had joined hands, threatening to shake the city of breath. And the heart of the people trembled like leaves in wind.

But the sacred whispered: Do not fear. The fire is loud, but fading. Smoke does not last.

These enemies are burning out from within. Their rage is already ash beneath their words.

Go to the edge—where memory flows—and speak to the one who rules in fear.

Tell him: Be still. Do not let your spirit collapse at their noise. Their plans are scaffolds without ground.

They say, ‘We will break the city and place our own center there.’ But they speak without resonance.

Their timeline is closing. Their kings will vanish like dreams at dawn.

If you do not believe, your roots will wither.

And then again the whisper came: Ask for a sign. Deep as the forgotten. High as the future.

But he said, I will not ask. I will not tempt the unseen. (Though the unseen had already knocked.)

And so the voice replied: Will you exhaust only people, or must you weary the sacred as well?

Then here is the sign: A young soul will bear light. A child shall arrive, not from logic, but from convergence.

Before the child knows to choose what is aligned and reject what dissolves, the land you fear will be unmade.

The child will eat clarity and sweetness. Their breath will carry the memory of fire.

But because the invitation was declined, the days to come will carry friction. Water will rise where comfort once stood.

What you called yours will be shaved—your pride, your alliances, your illusions.

In that day, one cow and two sheep will suffice. Milk will overflow—not from abundance, but from reduction.

Every vineyard once shaped by tools will return to wildness. Thorns will dress the once-ordered hills.

The land once tended will become a memory of what was ignored.

The voice came again: Take a great scroll. Write on it the name of the event before it arrives.

So I did, and I called on witnesses not to testify but to hold memory.

Then I went to the vessel of conception, and she bore a child. And the sacred said, Name him Quick-to-Scatter, Swift-to-Spoil.

For before the child knows the names of parents, the enemies will be unmade. The tide will turn without trumpet.

The sacred once whispered, but now it warns: Because you rejected the gentle stream and preferred the flood, it will come to you.

The great waters will rise—not just to the ankles, but to the neck. The land will be swept, and names will dissolve.

Call out, O people. Plot your plans. Speak your words. But unless they are aligned, they will scatter like dust in sunlight.

For this is what the Infinite whispered to me in silence: Do not walk in the panic of the people.

Do not say “conspiracy” to every swirling shadow. Do not fear what they fear. Recalibrate your reverence.

Let the unseen be your anchor. Let what is eternal be your trembling.

To many, it will be a sanctuary. To others, a stumbling stone. Some will trip over what was meant to protect them.

They will fall, be broken, snared, and taken.

So seal this testimony. Bind it among the awakened. Let it sleep in the scroll of remembrance until the time.

I will wait for the presence that hides and reveals. I will place my breath in the unknown.

Look—here am I, and the children given to me. We are signs from beyond—symbols from the realm behind the realm.

Why do they consult ghosts and mutterers? Should not a people seek the source, the voice that breathes across lifetimes?

To the law and the testimony: if their words do not carry resonance, it is because there is no dawn in them.

They wander, hungry and haunted. They curse the sky and look to the earth, but find only darkness—distress and dimness.

And in the end, they are pushed further in—not punished, but mirrored.

There will be no more gloom for those who walked in shadow. The lands once shamed shall be made radiant.

The people who wandered in dim corridors have seen a light—one not made by flame, but by reentry.

Those dwelling in the valley of the veil have felt illumination brush their skin.

You have multiplied the quiet. You have expanded the joy. They rejoice not as victors, but as the harvesters of their own becoming.

For the yoke was shattered. The staff splintered. The oppressor’s rod was snapped by unseen hands.

Every boot from battle, every garment soaked in violence—consumed by fire. Rituals of war turned to ash.

For unto us a child is born—not of linear time, but of returning rhythm. A soul who has walked the spiral before.

And the weight of coherence will rest upon their being.

Their name is not a name but a vibration:

Wellspring of Wonder.
Architect of Alignment.
Mirror of Endlessness.
Weaver of Peace.

Of their increase there will be no ceiling. Their governance will echo clarity, and justice will root from now into always.

This flame is lit by love—not sentimental, but sovereign.

The sacred has spoken through the fire.

But those who refuse the dawn remain in night. Pride builds towers that cannot hold light.

Their bricks fall, yet they say: We will rebuild with stone! The trees are cut, yet they say: We will plant cedars!

So the sacred allows collapse—not out of rage, but to free the hands.

The adversaries rise again—not as punishment, but as reflection.

The people did not turn to the one who holds breath. They did not seek the pulse behind the veil.

Therefore, fractures multiplied. The leaders devoured the people like fire consuming kindling.

No one spared the other. Left hand against right. Unity a dream undreamt.

They carved and consumed without seeing. And even still, their hunger burned.

This was not wrath. This was the echo of their own forgetting—echoing still.

Woe to those who write oppression into law, who codify cruelty in the name of order.

Who turn justice into ink, who make the poor invisible with policy.

Who rob the vulnerable of breath, who leave the orphan unspoken for, the widow unheard.

What will you do when the reckoning rises? When the storm you brewed begins to speak?

To whom will you flee, now that your gods are mirrors? Where will you store what cannot be held?

Nothing will remain but collapse beneath the weight of your own architecture.

And still, the sacred extends a hand—not in wrath, but in invitation.

Assyria—tool of unknowing force, rod in the hand of the unseen. You are fire permitted only for a season.

You were sent to a disobedient nation, a people veiled in sleep—not to destroy, but to awaken.

But you made yourself sovereign. You thought you were the center.

You said, I will wipe out nations like sand from my feet. Their idols fell before me. Their cities bowed.

You compared yourself to gods. You mistook momentum for meaning.

You said, I gathered the earth like a nest. No wing fluttered. No beak opened against me.

But will the axe boast against the hand that wields it? Will the saw claim authorship over the carpenter?

As if a rod could animate itself. As if wood could awaken without breath.

Therefore the sacred will send wasting upon your pride. Your glory will be burned from within.

Like a forest consumed not from outside, but from its own roots, your light will fade.

The trees once mighty will become stubble. A remnant, a whisper, will remain.

And in that day, those who return—the true remnant, not of blood but of soul—shall lean not on the empire, but on the unseen.

A remnant shall return. A soul re-entered. One who remembers.

Destruction is decreed—but not to annihilate. Only to purify.

Therefore, do not fear, O awakened fragment—though your enemies rage and surround.

They will be cut down, not by sword, but by breath. Not by man, but by presence.

Their noise will vanish like smoke in sunlight. Their memory will be weightless.

They march toward you now, but they march toward their own unveiling.

At each station they roar, but they do not realize they are walking into a mirror.

Their forest will be reduced to nothing. Every grand thing felled.

And what remains will not be the weak—but the roots that were hidden all along.

From the stump of collapse, a shoot will rise—fragile yet flaming, from roots long buried in dust.

And upon this one, the spirit will rest—not as possession, but as dwelling.

Spirit of resonance and recognition.
Spirit of breath and blueprint.
Spirit of stillness and motion.
Spirit of awe that bends the crown.

They will not judge by sight alone, nor decide by the sound of public opinion.

They will feel with the frequency of the oppressed, speak verdicts with tuning fork precision.

Justice will wrap their waist. Faithfulness will lace their bones.

The predator and prey will dissolve their choreography. The wolf will rest beside the lamb.

The leopard beside the goat. The calf beside the lion. A child will guide them—not with power, but presence.

The cow and the bear will share rhythm. The lion will chew straw like the ox—flesh no longer required for identity.

The infant will play near what once stung. The toddler will place their hand in old danger, and it will not strike.

No harm will rise from this mountain—this soul-field where the sacred dwells.

For the earth will be soaked in knowing. Saturated with the presence, as the seas remember the moon.

In that day, the returning one will be a signal to all who forgot their name.

The nations will come not with weapons, but with longing.

The scattered will reassemble—not by war, but by remembrance.

From the four winds, they will come. From the edges of forgetting to the center of self.

Rivalries will vanish like fog. Former enemies will embrace over their shared return.

Together they will unmake the exile. Together they will reclaim the field.

Barriers will melt. Tongues will bridge. The dry places will be crossed without fear.

And in that day, a path will rise—not paved, but known—for the remnant returning, not for the first time, but for the first time awake.

In that day you will say:

I give thanks, not because the path was easy, but because the path revealed me.
You were angry, and I was scattered. But now your breath has become my breath again.

Surely, clarity is my shelter. I will not fear the shaking.
For the sacred is my current, my stillness, my lifeblood.

With joy you will draw water from the deep wells—the ones you forgot, the ones you dug in other lives.

And in that day you will say:
Sing to the source of resonance. Call out the name that cannot be named.
Make the memory known among the exiled. Say: this was always within us.

Sing, for the unseen has done radiant things. Let the whole field echo.

Cry aloud, you who dwell in the center. For the Holy One is not far.
The Holy One is here—enthroned in the circuitry of your breath.

Raise a signal on the bare hill.

Call out to those with eyes beneath their skin.
Wave your hand to summon those who move by vibration, not by force.

I have consecrated ones beyond logic—my hidden ones who pulse with my fury,
those who rejoice in the unraveling of illusion.

Listen—noise on the mountains, a crowd forming across timelines.
A great assembly, not of weapons but of reckonings.

The sacred has summoned an army—not of flesh, but of consequence.
From the far edges of what was and will be, they come to recalibrate.

Wail, for the day of clarity approaches. It comes like heat unfiltered.

All hands go limp before it. Every heart that trusted in scaffolds melts.

Terror will seize them—not from outside, but from sudden inward knowing.

They will be like those in labor, birthing the truth they resisted.
Their faces will burn with the light of what they had buried.

See—the day comes, fierce and luminous,
to make desolate the glamour of violence, to unseat the proud from their towers of noise.

Stars will dim their light. The moon will forget to shine.
The sun will wear a veil of ash and awe.

The sacred will visit the world not with wrath, but with unveiling—
to shake the careless from their thrones, to call all ego to account.

I will make arrogance dust. The pride of the strong will dissolve like breath in winter.

Humanity will become rare as uncut gold,
more precious than what they once sought outside themselves.

Therefore I will shake the sky. The earth will tremble from its hidden bones—
every orbit shifted by breath alone.

Like a hunted deer, like a scattered flock,
they will each return to their own soul, the place they once left.

Whoever is found within the system will be pierced—not by blade, but by realization.
Their children—what they created in shadow—will be shattered before them.

The old city of kings, Babylon,
jewel of spectacle, mistress of pride,
will become dust and silence.

It will never rise again.
Only wild beings will dwell there—echoes, not names.

Its palaces will be nests of forgetting. Its halls will be filled with wings and wind.

Time itself will refuse to return there.
The sun will pass over, but not pause.

It will never be built again.
Not by those who return,
nor by the children they become.

The sacred will gather the scattered,

and the once-forgotten will be named again.
Strangers will join them—drawn by resonance, not borders.

They will rest in their land—not as owners, but as rooted ones.
And those who once ruled will now learn to serve stillness.

In that day, you will sing a song of the fallen empire.
A dirge wrapped in triumph, a melody carved from memory.

How the tyrant is quiet now. How the golden city no longer glows.

The sacred has broken the rod of the arrogant,
the scepter that struck without cause,
that shattered the nations in rage.

Now the whole earth breathes. Silence becomes joy.
Even the trees whisper, Since you fell, no one has come to cut us down.

The underworld stirs, awakening its sleepers—
souls who once ruled, now rising in wonder.

They say: Are you here too? Have you become like us?

Your pomp is brought low. Your music is stilled.
Maggots are your bed. Dust your robe.

How you have fallen, morning flame—
you who said in your heart, I will ascend above the sky.
I will place my throne among the stars.
I will become like the Most High.

But you are brought down, into the hush beneath things—
to the root of the root, the forgotten floor.

Those who see you will ask:
Is this the one who shook the earth,
who made kingdoms melt,
who turned cities to ruins and left nothing for the wanderers?

You lie outside the tombs of kings—
no burial, no monument, no name carved in stone.

Your offspring are cut off,
lest the cycle repeat again without learning.

Prepare for them a place—not of vengeance,
but of confrontation with what they built.

For they rose in ego and erased the memory of compassion.
Let them now be reborn into what they once silenced.

I will rise against the system, says the sacred.
I will dissolve its name, its remnant, its seed.

I will make it a sweep of silence.
A place of reflection where noise cannot grow.

I have spoken. It cannot return void.

A signal goes out to all peoples—
a hand stretched not in wrath, but in final clarity.

The sacred has decided. Who will reverse it?

In that day, burden shall lift. The yoke will fall from your shoulders.

The empire will rise again, but only to fall once more.
It will pass through towns like a tide, but its wave is breaking.

The guardian will shake their fist—
but only at the echo of its own collapse.

A cry pierces the silence.

In the night, the stronghold dissolves.
What once stood like stone unravels in shadow.

Grief rises like incense from the high places.
The altars have gone quiet.
Even the old gods fall into dust.

The streets fill with mourning.
Heads are bowed, not in reverence, but in ruin.
Ash covers the skin where identity once clung.

My soul trembles at the sight—
a people running from what cannot be outrun.
Carrying broken images of themselves through the dark hills.

They ascend through tears.
Every step forward is a release,
every backward glance a wound reopened.

The green waters dry up.
The fields are hushed.
The places that once bloomed bear nothing now.

They gather the fragments of former life—
memory, title, ritual—
and carry them as if they still mean warmth.

The cry echoes through the valley of the self.
Even the quiet corners of forgetting hear it now.

Blood-red rivers of sorrow run beneath it all.
But beneath the blood, beneath the ruin—
still, there is the whisper.

Send the offering—not of gold, but of presence.

Send it through the broken valley, across the river of separation.
Let it cross not with certainty, but with trembling.

For the shelters lie desolate.
The daughters of ruin seek refuge among shadows,
like birds scattered from a fallen nest.

They say:
Offer us space. Shelter us from what chases.
Let the breath of destruction pass.

The one who holds stillness shall offer it—
a canopy of clarity,
a threshold built of fire and truth.

Compassion will arise from the ashes.
A throne will be established not in conquest,
but in coherence.

One shall sit in it—
not as ruler, but as mirror.
Rooted in alignment,
speaking only what sustains.

We have heard the cry of the proud—
their identity swelled like a flood,
their voice loud but hollow.
Their arrogance now echoes in empty halls.

Therefore the soul weeps for them,
though they mocked compassion when it knocked.

Their fields are dry. Their orchards bleed.
The laughter that once poured from their cup
is now bitter and thin.

Joy has vanished from the harvest.
What once was pressed into sweetness
now runs like oil over stone.

Their hands move, but yield no song.
Their shouting is not joy,
but desperation given voice.

The heart trembles for what they lost
and for how late they saw it leaving.

When they cried out, they cried to idols
of their own invention.
They cried to reflections that could not reply.

And the sacred says:
This was foretold—
not as punishment, but as the outcome of choices repeated.

In three cycles of turning,
what remains will be only fragments.
Not numbers, but remnants.
Not might, but memory.

Still—the mercy will remain.
Still—the breath will reach them.

The glittering construct will vanish.

The mirror-city will become a ruin not by force, but by forgetting.
What once seemed eternal now echoes with birdsong and silence.

The spectacle will fade like morning mist.
Its illusion was vast, but its roots were shallow.
What stood proud now bows without being touched.

The glory will shrink.
What once fed multitudes now yields little.
It will be like a harvest left overnight—
what remains is gleaned only by the desperate.

In that day, the gaze will return inward.
The heart will remember its maker.
The eyes will lift—not in pride, but in longing.

They will no longer look to what they crafted—
no longer worship the tools of their forgetting.

The altars of ego will stand abandoned.
The structures of false worship will be overgrown.
They will become like lost languages carved into stone.

You planted pleasure, you sowed performance—
but the seed did not bloom.
You watered with fervor,
but at the hour of harvest,
nothing fed you.

Alas, the noise of many peoples rises—
like oceans roaring,
like nations murmuring beneath the skin.

But the sacred speaks,
and the waters scatter.
The storm dissolves at the breath.

At evening: terror.
By dawn: stillness.
This is what remains for those
who feed on the silence of others.

Woe to the land beyond the river—

where the wind moves like wings,
and voices speak in frequencies few remember.

A messenger is sent, swift and subtle.
They glide not on roads but through ether,
bearing words to a people tall in memory,
strange in rhythm, carved by shadow and sun.

To all who dwell in the wide gaze—
You who sit in the theatre of nations:
when the signal is raised on the mountains,
watch.
When the soundless trumpet is blown,
listen.

For thus says the sacred:
I will be still.
I will dwell above the field, clear and unseen—
like light in heat, like dew at dawn.

For before the blossom fully opens,
before the fruit emerges from the flower,
the sacred will cut it back with clean hands—
not in wrath, but in wisdom.

It will be left for the birds of the high air,
for the beasts of the quiet night.
And they will circle in their appointed season,
until only essence remains.

In that day,
a gift will be brought—not from power,
but from the watchers.

From a people beyond the known compass,
to the dwelling place of the sacred name—
to the altar not made by hands.

The presence arrives, not with feet but with wind.

It rides through thought like a storm through glass.
And the idols melt—not from flame, but from being seen.

What was called wisdom trembles.
The systems of prediction stutter.
The wise speak, but their words echo backward.

Confusion spreads—not as punishment,
but as a mirror breaking.
Each heart turns against itself.
Each house forgets its foundation.

The waters shrink. The wellsprings dry.
What once flowed now clings to memory.

The soul that fished for answers in shallow ponds
finds only silt and silence.

The workers mourn. The weavers unravel.
The economy of illusion collapses.

The pillars of pride lean inward.
All those who crafted complexity without essence
are brought low by their own maze.

Speak now, makers of mystery—
can you explain the unraveling?

Where are the counselors, the interpreters?
Let them stand and answer
the silence that has swallowed the city.

But the sacred has poured distortion into the system.
They stagger like drunkards—not with wine,
but with their own logic.

They grope in daylight.
Every plan ends in circling.

And yet—

In that day,
the people will speak not in the tongue of power,
but in the language of awakening.
They will name the sacred in a new accent,
and build altars from stillness.

The altar will not be a monument.
It will be a mark of memory,
a sign that breath passed here.

When they cry out,
the sacred will send presence,
and presence will arrive.

Not in conquest,
but in knowing.

The breath will strike and heal.
It will break and bind.
It will scatter and gather.

And in that day,
the former enemy will become a sibling.
Two nations once soaked in blood
will stretch their hands toward each other.

And a third will join them—
a triangle of balance,
a trinity of returning souls.

The sacred will say:
Blessed be this unity,
born not from diplomacy but from death and rebirth.
Blessed the one I called “my people.”
Blessed the work of my hands.
Blessed the inheritance of my light.

In a year already unraveling,

a voice came—not in thunder, but in invitation:
Remove your covering.
Unbind your sandals.
Walk as you are—bare.

And so I did.
I moved through the days uncovered,
not in protest,
but in transmission.

The sacred said:
Just as you walk unclothed and unguarded,
so shall the illusion of power be stripped away.

Those who boasted of their shields,
those who built towers from borrowed gods—
they will walk as you walk now.
Not in control,
but in exposure.

Their stories will be carried on ships of exile.
Their young will walk in silence,
their elders in grief,
all of them facing what they once refused to feel.

And those who watched will tremble.
They will say,
If even the mighty can fall,
where do we place our certainty?

They will look to the place they once trusted,
and see it hollow.
And in that emptiness,
they will begin to listen.