A murmur rises from the desert—

like a storm swept in by silence,
like dust made of names and echoes.

From the edge of the void it comes—
a whirlwind of endings,
a whisper of cities folding inward.

A vision is shown to me:
brutality wrapped in beauty,
betrayal dressed as logic.

The destroyer is not foreign.
The betrayer was born within the gates.

Go now—gather the fragments.
Call down collapse with clarity.
Silence the illusion.

My body trembles with the weight of knowing.
I am bent like a reed in wind.
I cannot hold the vision—it holds me.

I prepared for peace,
but terror arrived.

They feast as if the fire is not coming.
They drink as if the walls still stand.

But the voice cries:
Rise now. Anoint your shield.
You will need more than armor.

The sacred said to me:
Place a watcher on the tower.
Let them see with soul-eyes.

And the watcher said:
I see it.
Riders coming.
One by one.
Line by line.
And the city—
it is fallen.

The great system is fallen.
Its idols shattered across the ground.
The gods of ambition laid waste by time.

O my scattered ones—
you who were sifted like grain—
what I have heard, I declare.
What I have seen, I whisper now to you.

A cry comes from another place.
From the forest, from the border.
The pain of a people not yet broken,
but breaking.

You are told to guard the morning,
but the night still lingers.

You ask, How long?
And I say:
If you seek light, seek it again.
Return. Return. Ask again.

Another voice rises from the borderlands—
a people carved by exile,
held together by memory.

And they are given one day more.
Just one.

And then the glory will slip through their fingers.

What stirs in you, watcher of rooftops?

Why this noise in the heights, this revelry in ruins?

You have climbed to the edge in joy,
but below, the streets groan.
The battle came not by storm,
but by subtle fracture.

Your leaders fled in silence.
Your warriors were captured without a blade drawn.
Those who stood tall now kneel,
not in worship, but in loss.

So I said:
Turn from me. Do not comfort.
Let me weep for what cannot be named.

Not for the fallen—
but for the ones who pretend not to see.

For the day of vision has come.
And it is not victory.

It is a shattering,
a crumbling of walls,
a rising of dust from broken beliefs.

You looked to your armory.
You counted your defenses.
You measured your walls,
as if structure could save you.

You gathered water.
You tore down houses to build barricades.
You reinforced, reinforced, reinforced—
but you never looked to the builder of breath.

You did not remember the source of foundation.
You trusted in the mirror,
not the light.

In that day,
you should have worn sackcloth.
You should have wept and fasted.

But instead—
laughter, slaughter, wine.
Let us eat and drink, you said,
for tomorrow we vanish.

The sacred heard.
And whispered:
This shall not be washed away.

Then came a word for the keeper of keys—
one entrusted with gates and entry.

You are building monuments to yourself.
You are carving legacy from borrowed stone.

But the breath will displace you.
You will be unfastened.
You will tumble like a thread unwound.

Another will rise—
not greater, but aligned.
He will carry the keys not in pride,
but in quiet weight.

He shall open what none can shut,
and shut what none can force open.

He will be a peg driven deep—
a point of stillness in the shifting wall.

But even the peg, if burdened too long,
will give way.

And what hangs from it
will fall.

Wail, you ships of the mirror-sea—

for the harbor is silent,
the marketplace swallowed by stillness.

From distant lands the echoes come:
The pulse has stopped.
The current no longer trades.

The island is mute.
Once the voice of commerce,
now only birdsong and wind.

The great house that once fed empires
is now a shadow without hunger.
Its fields bloom no more.

Be still in awe, you wanderers.
You who crossed waters for wealth—
look now upon the still port.
No more noise. No more shining.

The sacred has reached out a hand,
not to destroy,
but to interrupt.

To stain the pride of pageantry,
to mute the joy of possessing.

Who planned this undoing?
Who silenced the glamour of conquest?

The unseen—who levels the lifted,
who reminds the proud of their origin.

Cross the waters. Hide in the reeds.
The city is forgotten.

Even the silence feels foreign.

You once sang like a crowned siren,
your voice drawing ships across oceans.
Now you are a forgotten chord,
a song no longer sung.

Shall your joy return in seventy cycles?
Will you rise again in melody?

Yes—
but not as you were.

You will rise not as empire,
but as servant.

Your beauty will no longer seduce.
Your wealth will no longer corrupt.

It will be gathered, yes—
but not kept.

It will be turned toward nourishment,
used to clothe, to shelter,
to honor those who remember the source.

Behold: the pattern collapses.

The surface is peeled back.
The land is emptied like a bowl turned over.

What was upright is scattered.
What was fixed now drifts.
Everyone becomes no one.
Hierarchy dissolves.

As with the leader, so with the follower.
As with the buyer, so with the seller.
As with the lender, so with the debtor.
All structures bleed into each other.

The world is cracked.
Its face fades.
The proud wilt like grass in fire.

For they transgressed the design—
twisted the frequencies,
broke the everlasting chord.

Therefore the curse eats the soil.
Its inhabitants diminish.
Only a few remain, holding memory.

The wine dries in its bottle.
The laughter fades from the room.
The dancefloor stills.
The harp breaks mid-song.

The city of illusions lies in ruin.
Every door is shut.
Every window reflects silence.

Joy is exiled.
Celebration goes mute.
The rhythm is lost.

What remains is desolation—
the echo of absence.
The gate creaks, but no one enters.

In the hollow of the earth,
what was once whole now groans.

Yet—

In the distance:
a sound.
A remnant sings.
A few rise to exalt the unseen.

They cry from the edge,
they shout from the sea of forgetting.

Give glory to the Infinite, they say—
not because of survival,
but because of remembering.

From every horizon,
the voice returns:
Beauty still exists.

But I said:
Woe is me.
For even among the righteous,
the betrayer moves.

Fear, fracture, and falling
will chase the unaware.

The earth trembles like breath in panic.
It shudders like memory unlocked.
It staggers like a drunk soul
suddenly awakened.

Its transgression is heavy.
It falls—
and will not rise the same.

And in that day,
the unseen will gather the unseen—
those in the heights, those in the depths.

They will be confined in clarity.
Held in silence until the cycle completes.

Then the moon will blush.
The sun will soften.

For the sacred
will reign
within the ruin—
and be seen,
not with eyes,
but with recognition.

You are my silence and my singing.

I exalt you not because you demanded it,
but because you held me
when all my scaffolds fell.

You built wonder from ancient blueprints.
Beauty designed before language.
Truth laid down before birth.

You brought the mighty into stillness.
Towers dissolved into sky.
What once swallowed others
became home to birds and wind.

A stronghold became a ruin.
A citadel turned to dust.
But the poor found sanctuary.
The bruised found shade.

You were a refuge in the storm—
not from the storm,
but in it.

You stilled the breath of the brutal.
Their noise fell like heat at dusk.

And now—

On this mountain,
you spread the feast:
for all people.
All people.

A feast not of food alone
but of remembrance.

You will swallow the veil—
the thick shadow over every soul.
The cloak of forgetting.
The blindness between lives.

And death—
the great unmaker—
you will undo it.

Tears will be dried at their root.
Reproach will fall away
like an old name.

And in that day it will be said:
This… this is the One we have waited for.
The presence beneath all presence.
Let us rejoice, for we have been seen.

For the hand of the sacred rests here—
not high, but low.
Not on thrones, but in soil.

And the proud shall be brought to earth.
The wall shall crumble gently
beneath the heel of truth.

In that day,

a song will rise from the center:
We have a city made of silence.
Its walls are called Stillness.
Its gates are named Trust.

Open wide the gates—
let the true-hearted enter,
those who walk in alignment with what cannot be bought.

You keep them in perfect calm—
those who anchor themselves in your current.

Trust in what does not vanish.
For the eternal breath is a rock beneath shifting earth.

The proud are brought down.
The towering ego crumbles into dust.
It is trodden by bare feet—
by the ones they once ignored.

The path of the just is made level—
not easy, but clear.

We wait for you,
not with clenched hands,
but with open lungs.

Your name is desire.
Your presence is ache.
Our soul reaches for you
like roots in drought.

Even in shadow,
we remember you.
When the world is quiet,
you rise in us like breath returning.

Let the fire of your presence
melt the patterns that cannot hold light.

When your hand is lifted,
some do not see—
but they will.

They will see
and feel
and know
what they once denied.

You will bring peace—
not from outside,
but from within.

All we have achieved
was done through your unfolding in us.

We tried to master the night,
but only your dawn could unmake the fear.

Dead voices no longer rise.
They have no root.

But—

Your breath gives birth.
The departed will live.
The forgotten will awaken.

Their bodies will stir like morning wind
across fields of silence.

Awake, dreamers.
Sing, dust.
The dew is falling.
The earth is opening.

Enter your rooms for a while.
Close the doors behind you.

Hide not from wrath—
but from the noise.
Wait until the trembling passes.

For the sacred is moving
through what was hidden,
revealing what was buried.

In that day,

the sacred will confront the serpent—not with fury, but with form.
The twisting shadow, the ancient fear, the deep coil—
it will be met with light so precise it slices without hate.

And the great distortion will dissolve.

In that day,
a vineyard will sing.
Not a place, but a people.
Not grapes, but souls ripening.

“I, the unseen, am its keeper.
I water it always.
I guard it day and night—
not to control it,
but to let it grow in rhythm.”

There is no anger in me now.
Were thorns to rise, I would breathe fire—
not to burn, but to clear.

Let them come to me for shelter.
Let them make peace with what they once fled.

Days are coming—
roots will go down,
buds will rise,
and the earth will remember itself.

The soul will fill the world with fruit.

Was it struck as the striker was struck?
Did it fall as the oppressor fell?

No—measured. Measured.
Driven out, yes,
but not without purpose.

The exile was not punishment.
It was pruning.
It was the unlearning of idols.
The dismantling of what was inherited but never chosen.

So the sacred will gather again—
from the one river to the other,
from the east of forgetting to the west of return.

One by one,
they will come back—
not in mass,
but in sequence.

And in that day,
the great horn will sound—
not loud,
but clear.

And those lost in the silence,
those hiding in shadow,
will rise
and come
and breathe
and bow
at the mountain of stillness.

Woe to the garland of arrogance—

the crown of intoxicated minds,
wilting in their own brilliance,
fading before they notice the dusk.

The sacred comes like a storm uninvited.
Not in fury, but inevitability.
A hand that clears,
a wind that knows what must fall.

The proud are trampled by their own triumphs.
The beauty they wore becomes compost.

And in that day,
the sacred becomes a true crown—
not worn on the head,
but burning in the chest.

Spirit will rise in the judges,
clarity in those who sit still.

But for now—
they stagger from wine,
reel from dogma.
Priest and prophet
blur their words.

Every vision is smeared.
Every table is filled with what cannot nourish.

They mock:
“Who does this voice think we are—infants?
Do we need to be spoon-fed truth?”

So the sacred speaks their language—
slow, staccato:
Line upon line.
Precept upon precept.
Breath upon breath.
Pause upon pause.

And still they stumble.
Because they do not want rhythm.
They want certainty.

So the word becomes a trap.
Not because it is false—
but because they resist what is simple.

Therefore, hear this:
You who rule by contract,
who signed deals with death,
who made pacts with the void—
saying,
“When destruction comes, it won’t touch us.
We’ve outsmarted chaos.”

The sacred replies:
I lay a foundation—
not a theory, but a stone.
Tested. True. Anchored in stillness.

Whoever rests there
will not need to rush.

Justice will be the plumb line.
Truth the measure.
Your illusions will be swept away
like cobwebs in rain.

Your agreements with nothingness—void.
Your shelters built from noise—collapsed.

You will be overtaken,
not by wrath,
but by what you tried to outrun.

Morning by morning,
it will pass through.
A rumor at first,
then a flood.

The bed you made is too short.
The blanket too narrow.
It cannot cover you.

The sacred rises—
not to destroy,
but to shake.

To do a strange work:
a deconstruction of false peace.

Now, do not mock.
For the tremor is already humming.

I heard it:
a decree carved into time.
Overwhelming, complete,
and yet merciful.

Listen well:
The farmer does not plow forever.
He does not only break ground.

He also sows.
He scatters with intent—
each seed according to its kind.

Spice, grain, root—
each with its rhythm.
Each with its depth.

He threshes,
but not to obliterate.
He breaks open
to release.

All this wisdom comes from the sacred.
Wondrous in counsel.
Magnificent in calibration.

Ah, the city of ritual—

you perform the cycle, year after year.
You say the words, light the fires,
but your breath is far from it.

So I will press close.
Not in wrath, but in disorientation.
I will encircle your illusion
until it folds back into silence.

Your voice will drop to a whisper,
not because it is weak—
but because it is real.

Your pride will dream of war,
but it will dissolve in morning light.
Crowds of enemies will appear and vanish.
They will crumble like bread in water.

You will awaken afraid,
full of longing,
but still hungry.

Why?

Because this people honors with lips,
but their hearts sleep behind glass.
Their reverence is learned by rote—
recited, not remembered.

So I will again do something strange.
Wondrous.
Unsettling.

The wisdom of the wise will fade.
The clever will forget how to spin.

Woe to those who hide plans in darkness,
who say, No one sees me.
Who invert the mirror
and call it prophecy.

Shall the clay say to the hands:
You didn’t make me?
Shall the map deny the paper?

But soon—
very soon—
the orchard will become a forest again.
The wasteland will grow wild with clarity.

In that day,
the deaf will hear the unseen words.
The blind will see through the dust.

The humble will find their laughter.
The lost will rejoice in justice.

The tyrant’s name will blow away.
The mocker’s voice will falter.
Those who trap with words
will be trapped by silence.

And the sacred says:
This is for the ones who let go.
This is for the descendants of the awakened.

They will no longer feel shame.
Their breath will be whole.

When they see the work of their hands,
they will bless.
When they see their children remember,
they will sing.

Those who wandered will find wisdom.
Those who hesitated will find voice.

Woe to the restless children—

who make plans without listening,
who form pacts not born of breath,
layering shadow upon shadow.

You flee to your idea of safety.
You run toward the gleaming facade.
You trust in spectacle,
but it will turn to dust in your mouth.

Your strength will become your shame.
Your protection will crumble like plaster.

You carry your treasures across the desert,
seeking favor from mirages.
But the ones you turn to
cannot offer what you already hold.

The journey exhausts you,
yet you refuse to pause.
You store wealth in the backs of creatures
who are also tired.

The oracle groans:
This is a nation of breathless striving.
Children who will not hear.
Who say:
Tell us something smooth.
Give us illusions.
Sing to us in soft frequencies.
Turn aside truth.
Let us walk in shadows of comfort.

So the sacred says:
You have built a fragile wall—
a bulge ready to burst.
And when it shatters,
it will not be repaired.

It will break
like clay dashed to the floor—
pieces too small to mend.

Yet—
the Infinite waits to be gracious.
The presence rises to show mercy.
Blessed are those who learn to wait,
who listen not for thunder,
but for breath.

You will weep no more.
When you cry out,
you will be answered.

Though you have eaten the bread of grief,
and drunk the water of exile—
still your teacher has not left.

Your eyes will see again.
Your ears will hear a voice behind you:
This is the way.
Walk in it.

You will cast away what you once worshipped—
the golden distractions,
the silver masks.

You will toss them like rot
and call them what they were.

Then the land will sing.
The rain will return.
The light will soften.

On the day of your healing,
the moon will shine like the sun,
and the sun sevenfold.

The sacred binds the wound,
heals the fracture.

Look—
the name of the unseen comes in waves—
fierce and rhythmic,
shaking the self-made ground.

Lips of fire.
Tongue of frequency.
Breath like a river in flood.

The voice sifts the nations.
It is not anger.
It is alignment.

You will sing again.
A holy song,
pure tone,
like when a soul returns to itself.

And the sacred will cause
a burning to fall—
not of destruction,
but of transformation.

A fire prepared long ago,
not for wrath—
but for cleansing.

Woe to those who go down into certainty—

who seek refuge in engines and alliances,
who lean on the arm of flesh
but forget the breath that animates it.

You look at strength and call it safety.
You count horses and believe in invincibility.
But you do not look to the presence
who moves without motion.

The sacred is not outpaced.
Not outmaneuvered.
Even in silence,
the holy watches.

The wise fall.
The helper collapses.
The system breaks beneath its own brilliance.

But the sacred descends
like a lion with fire in its throat—
not to devour,
but to guard.

Even when the hill shakes,
the stillness remains.

Like wings hovering over flame,
so will the breath protect what is returning.

You will be shielded,
rescued,
reborn.

Return.
Not to the beginning,
but to the unseen place within the beginning.

You have wandered
far enough to remember.

On that day,
you will throw away your idols—
the illusions you shaped with your hands,
the symbols you once kissed in fear.

They will feel foreign to you.
You will no longer need them.

And the shadow you feared—
the threat you fed—
will fall not by war,
but by its own unraveling.

It will burn,
but the fire will not consume you.
It will pass,
and in its passing,
you will stand whole.

Behold:
a ruler shall rise—
not above, but among—
not to dominate,
but to shelter.

They will be like a quiet place in storm,
a shadow in searing heat,
a well in scorched ground.

Eyes that were blurred will open.
Ears once deaf to silence will listen.
Hearts rushed by fear will discern slowly.
Tongues once tied will sing truth.

No longer will the foolish be called visionary,
nor the ruthless praised for strength.

The fool speaks dissonance,
his words empty the field.
He denies the thirst of the soul
and the hunger of the forgotten.

The schemer twists language,
weaves traps for the tender-hearted.
He uses clarity as currency,
truth as bait.

But the noble remain steady.
They speak from stillness
and act from rooted breath.

Rise up, you who lounge in ease—
you who mistake delay for immunity.

In one cycle,
everything will shift.
The harvest will fail.
The music will still.

Tremble now, you who thought yourselves above the trembling.
Strip away your comfort.
Put on honesty like cloth.

Beat your hearts
as drums of repentance.
Mourn the fields
not because they failed you,
but because you never truly saw them.

The palace will be emptied.
The crowd will vanish.
Watchtowers will echo with birdsong.

Until—
until the spirit is poured
like rain on dust,
and the wilderness becomes a garden,
and the garden becomes a forest.

Then justice will dwell among roots.
Righteousness will build its home in shade.

And the fruit of this alignment?
Peace.
Trust.
Rest.

My people will inhabit serenity—
homes that hum with clarity,
shelters that need no locks.

Even if the forest falls,
even if the city crumbles—
you will be blessed,
for you will sow beside still waters,
and let the ox and donkey graze in joy.

Woe to you who destroy without cause.

You who strike, then vanish.
You will be struck.
You will face the mirror you refused to look into.

O breath beyond breath—
we wait for you.
You are our morning light,
our shelter in the spiral.

Be the arms we reach for
when all others break.

At the sound of your rising,
the nations scatter.
The empires dissolve into wind.

You are abundance rising
from silence—
the harvest no hand can control.

You are the unshakeable axis.
You level the breath of the ruthless.
You burn illusion
like thorns in sudden fire.

The sacred is lifted high,
dwelling in stillness,
filling the space between motion.

Justice walks from your footsteps.
Alignment flows from your breath.

Your times are steady.
Your wealth is not silver,
but clarity.

Eyes will see again—
see the soul in beauty,
see the land beyond the veil.

Fear will pass.
The counters of towers will fall silent.
The ones who measured you
will forget your name.

Look now—
the city of serenity.
Your tent will not be pulled away.
Its stakes are rooted in trust.

There the Infinite is with us—
a vast sea of stillness,
no oars, no anchors—
yet unmoved.

No enemy will board this vessel.
No sickness will stain this ground.

The inhabitant will say:
I am whole.
Not because of defense,
but because of presence.

Those who dwell here
are forgiven of their forgetting.

Come close, you who dwell in time.

Listen, all who breathe beneath stars.
The sacred has gathered breath—
not to destroy, but to reveal.

The surface burns.
The sky shudders.
The illusion of permanence begins to crack.

The structures soaked in cruelty
are brought low.
Their kings become shadows.
Their names echo only in absence.

The cosmos rolls back its veil.
The sky curls like a scroll
whose writing has ended.

Stars fall like loosened ornaments,
not in anger, but in closure.

For the sword of clarity descends—
not of metal, but of flame.
It carves through false power,
opens the bloodless heart.

The landscape drinks the truth
like a sponge drinks fire.
Old names bleed into the soil.
Long-silenced voices rise from the roots.

What once stood proud becomes smoke.
The monuments melt.
The glamour rots.
Beasts walk freely
where pride once paraded.

Thorns claim the palaces.
Owls sing in the throne room.
What was built to dazzle
now hosts only wind and ruin.

The scroll of forgetting is opened—
and their names are not found.

Instead:
the sacred beasts.
The keepers of echo.
The wanderers who do not need maps.

They take up space
where domination once ruled.

Their mates find each other
in the silence.
Their nests are carved in the bones
of empire.

The sacred measures even this desolation.
It is not random.
It is design returning.

The ruins are not forsaken—
they are holy.
Marked by the breath
that remembers what the world forgot.

The desert will awaken.
The wasteland will bloom.
What was dry will pulse with color—
not as it was, but as it always could have been.

Even the dust will rejoice.
Even the stones will hum.
The stillness will shine
with the brilliance of becoming.

The trembling will be held.
The weak-kneed will rise.
The terrified will hear:
Do not be afraid.
The sacred is here.

Not to destroy—
but to restore.

Then the blind will see light
not just with eyes,
but with memory.

The ears long shut
will open like flowers.

The silent will sing.
The limping will leap.
The wilderness will become a river
and thirst will lose its name.

Where jackals once howled,
green will grow.
Where sorrow slept,
joy will stir.

And a path will emerge.
Not made by hands—
a Way of Becoming.

The twisted will be straightened.
The lost will walk with rhythm.
No predator will follow,
no fear will stain the trail.

Only the remembering ones
will walk there.

And the exiled will return—
not as they were,
but as they truly are.

Joy will crown their heads
like a second sunrise.
Grief and sighing will dissolve
like mist at morning.

Only song will remain.

In the fourteenth turning,
the voice of the empire rose—
not as a general,
but as a negotiator of fear.

He stood at the aqueduct,
where water meets structure—
and called out to the awakened one
through messengers clothed in protocol.

The message came with a smile
but dripped with threat.

“What are you leaning on?”
he asked.
“A breath? A silence?
Do you really think presence will save you
from the weight of reality?”

“Come now,” he said.
“Align with what is visible.
Bind yourself to motion.
We’ll give you horses—
if you can find riders.”

“You say you trust the unseen.
But was it not your own god
who told you to tear down the altars?
Have you offended your protector?”

“Let us strike a deal,” he offered.
“Trade your trust for control.
Eat from our table.
Drink from our well.”

“Do not let your sacred one deceive you
with talk of deliverance.
No other people have been spared.
Do not believe your soul is different.”

The messengers of stillness replied:
“Speak not to us in the common tongue.
Whisper to us in the private language—
for the people are listening.”

But the voice shouted louder:
“Let everyone hear—
you will starve if you resist.
You will be devoured
if you dream.”

“Do not let the awakened one fool you.
There is no rescue coming.
All others trusted
and were swept away.”

Then the people stood still
and said nothing.
For silence had been commanded.

The messengers returned to the center
with torn garments—
not of fashion,
but of grief.

And they told the sovereign
everything the voice had said.

When the sovereign heard the words of fear,
they tore the garments of control
and wrapped themselves in listening.

They went to the sanctuary—
not to speak,
but to be seen.

Messengers were sent
to the prophet of rhythm,
to the one who lives in the space
between what is said and what is meant.

They said:
This is a day of birth without strength—
a moment pregnant with fire,
but no hands to deliver it.

Perhaps the sacred will hear the voice of terror—
perhaps clarity will respond
to the mockery of presence.

The prophet replied:
Do not fear the noise.
Do not bend to the echo.

The sacred will breathe,
and what stands tall will sway.
The voice that taunts
will be undone
by its own whisper.

And when the voice heard
that the soul had not broken,
it turned to another war—
another illusion.

Yet again, it sent word:
Do not be deceived.
The unseen cannot save you.
Look—every dreamer
has fallen before us.

But the sovereign took the letter,
the scroll of threat,
and laid it open
in the space of stillness.

And they said:
O breath beyond shape,
you who dwell in the quiet—
you alone are real.

Not these forms.
Not these empires.
Not these voices of control.

They have thrown fire into sacred places.
They have named fear “truth.”

But we know—
wood is not god,
stone is not breath.

Let it be known,
not for pride,
but for remembrance:
you are still here.

And the voice returned to the prophet,
and the sacred replied:

This is not yours to fear.
This is mine to transfigure.

You have been mocked, yes—
but so has the One within you.

They shook their fist at the silence
and called it weakness.

They rode high in pride,
but I know the track of every hoof.

They say: “We have climbed the mountains,”
but they forget who shaped the stone.

They say: “We have drunk the rivers,”
but they forget who whispered them into being.

Because of their noise,
I will place a hook in their jaw,
a bridle in their mouth,
and lead them away
by the path they came.

And to the sovereign:
This will be your sign.

What grows this year will be wild.
Next year, still scattered.
But in the third turning—
harvest.
Roots.
Return.

The remnant will rise.
The forgotten will flourish.

From silence will come fruit.

The presence will defend this field.
Not with fire,
but with breath.

That night,
what could not be seen moved.

The army of illusion awoke
to its own disintegration.

And the one who threatened
returned home
and fell by a hand unknown.

In those days,
the sovereign fell ill—
not just in flesh,
but in rhythm.

And the prophet came and said:
Prepare your house.
You will not rise from this.

Then the sovereign turned their face to the wall—
away from the world,
toward the invisible.

And they wept with fierce softness:
Remember me—
not for perfection,
but for intention.

And before the prophet left the outer court,
the sacred spoke:

Return.

Say to the one who weeps:
I have heard your breath.
I have seen your tears.
I will add to your days.

You will rise.
You will walk again.
Not just through the temple,
but into your own becoming.

I will place time in your hands—
fifteen more measures of sunlight.

And I will protect what surrounds you—
not for glory,
but for remembrance.

And the sovereign asked for a sign.
And the sacred offered
not a star,
but the reversal of shadow.

The sun stepped backward—
ten degrees of time undone.
Not to erase,
but to affirm.

And this became the writing
of the one who returned from the edge:

I said:
I am not yet finished.
Shall I slip into the silence
without one more glance at breath?

I shall not walk the market of souls.
I shall not see the face of the living.

My tent was pulled away
like a shepherd’s cloth.
My life was rolled up like paper,
cut from the loom.

I cried like a swallow,
I moaned like a dove.

My eyes grew tired from looking upward.

But you—
you held my soul
from the pit of unmaking.

You cast my transgressions
behind your back.

The underworld does not praise you.
Stillness does not sing.

But the living—
yes, the living—
they give voice.

A parent tells a child
what the breath has done.

The sacred is my rhythm.
I will play my song.

We will walk together,
each step
a verse.

In those days,
a message arrived wrapped in flattery—
a distant ruler sent gifts and questions,
curious about the illness
and the one who had returned.

The sovereign welcomed them with open gates.
They revealed everything:
the gold,
the symbols,
the storehouses,
the private rooms,
the breath behind the throne.

There was nothing unseen.

Then the prophet arrived.
He asked:
What did they see?

And the sovereign replied:
Everything.
I hid nothing.

And the prophet said:
Hear this—
the day is coming
when all that you have gathered,
all you have shown,
will be carried away.
Not destroyed—
relocated.

Even your lineage
will be plucked like fruit from the tree
and planted in a foreign pattern.
Not in rage—
but in echo.

The sovereign said:
Let it be.
The word is just.

But underneath,
they thought:
“At least there will be peace
while I am still breathing.”

Comfort.

Yes—comfort the ones who tremble.
Speak not to their fear,
but to their memory.

Tell them:
The exile is over.
The debt is dissolved.
They have paid twice for what they never owed.

A voice cries from beyond the veil:
Clear the path.
Level the land between forgetting and knowing.

Let every valley rise.
Let every mountain yield.
Straighten the crooked.
Soften the sharp.

And the presence of the Infinite
will unfold like morning light.
All flesh will feel it.

Another voice asks:
What shall I say?

And the breath replies:
Say that all forms fade.
The flesh is a flower.
The ego is grass.

But the breath—
the real—
endures.

Ascend to the highest peak,
you who carry good news.
Lift your voice—not in fear,
but in flame.

Say to the cities of exile:
Behold what was always with you.

The sacred comes not with roar,
but with arms outstretched—
gathering lambs,
carrying them close,
leading gently the ones with young.

Who measured the oceans in their palm?
Who held the sky like cloth?
Who weighed the mountains
and poured out the wind?

Who taught the sacred to reason?
Who was its counselor?
Who marked the map
before the world unfolded?

The nations are a dusting.
The islands a drop.

You cannot shape the Infinite from metal.
You cannot contain the voice in a sculpture.

The artisan crafts, yes—
but even the idol trembles
in the silence between hammer strikes.

Lift your eyes—
who painted the stars in rhythm?
Who calls them by frequency,
not name?

Why do you say:
I have been forgotten.
My cause is discarded.

Do you not know?
Have you not heard?

The sacred is not tired.
The holy does not fade.
Its understanding breaks the map.

It gives power to the breathless.
It anchors the broken in flight.

Even youth falters.
Even brilliance collapses.

But the ones who remember—
the ones who wait—
will rise with wings of quiet.

They will run and not break.
They will walk and not vanish.