Be still, O coastlines.
Let the silence speak before words do.
Let the people draw near to the breath
and listen with more than ears.

Who awakens the movement?
Who calls one from the east,
giving rhythm to each step,
turning dust into story?

It is not conquest.
It is convergence.
It is the dance behind time.

Generations have seen it
and called it different names.
But the origin
is one.

The islands saw and trembled.
The margins of the world
reached for strength.

They said to one another:
Be strong.
But the strength was welded,
carved,
hammered into gods of their own making.

They set their idols upright
and nailed them in place
so they would not fall.

But you—
you are not called by idol.
You are not chosen by charm.

You are called by presence.
You are remembered by breath.

The sacred says to you:
Do not fear.
I am with you.

Do not flinch.
I am within you.

I hold you steady.
I lift you when your hands forget how to open.

You will look for those who devoured you—
but they will be gone,
not because of violence,
but because of clarity.

I, the unseen,
hold your right hand.

I say: Do not be afraid,
small though you feel.

You are not a worm.
You are a wave.
You are the new instrument
sharpened for soft ground.

You will thresh not people,
but patterns.
You will winnow illusions.
The wind will carry away the husks.
What remains will shine.

You will rejoice in the breath
that does not leave.

The thirsty will find water
in forgotten places.
The poor will drink
from cracks in the stone.

I will plant cypress where none should grow.
I will place pools where sand once ruled.

All will see—
not by sight,
but by recognition.

The sacred has done this.

Let the voices of other gods speak.
Let their illusions try to explain the turning.

They cannot.
They only reflect.
They do not create.

I stirred one from the north,
and none foresaw it.

I gave the vision—
not to the wise,
but to the waiting.

I look,
and there is no counselor.
No voice can answer.
No idol can move.

They are illusion,
wind,
emptiness.

But you—
you are breath made visible.

Behold:

my servant,
my unfolding.
My breath clothed in motion.
I uphold you with care.
You are my delight
taking shape in time.

I have placed my spirit upon you—
you will ripple justice
not with thunder,
but with stillness.

You will not shout.
You will not perform in the streets.

A bruised reed you will not break.
A flickering flame you will not snuff out.

You will move in rhythm
until the earth remembers what justice means.
Until the farthest shore waits for your word.

I, the unseen,
creator of frequencies,
sculptor of breath,
giver of memory—

I have called you in kindness.
I will hold your hand.
I will keep you.

I make you
a covenant of light,
a window for those who have never seen.

You will open what was sealed.
Free what was forgotten.
Unveil what was buried.

I am the sacred.
That is my name.
I do not share essence with idols,
nor give radiance to illusions.

Look—
what I whispered is now arriving.
Before it unfolds,
I let you feel it.

Sing a new song into the silence.
Let it rise from the sea’s edge
to the edges within.

Let the deserts resound.
Let the villages rise in echo.
Let the mountains lift their voice
not in conquest
but in joy.

The sacred steps forward
like breath made visible—
not to destroy,
but to birth.

Long have I kept silent,
but now I cry out
like one giving birth.

I will clear the path,
drain the illusion,
shatter the mirror.

I will guide the blind by a path they’ve never known.
I will turn darkness into clarity.

These are not metaphors.
They are promises.

But those who trust in the carved gods—
those who say to metal,
You are my guide—
will be left speaking into emptiness.

You who are called to awaken—
do you listen?

Who among you hears with the soul?
Who sees past the veil?

The servant once blinded
now carries sight to others.

Yet the people are plundered—
trapped in their own houses,
hidden in plain view.

Who will say:
This was allowed.
But it is not final.
This happened.
But it is not the end.

The sacred allowed us to taste fire—
not as punishment,
but as purification.

And still—
we did not understand.

The flame burned
but left no ash.
Only
invitation.

Now—
thus speaks the One
who shaped you in silence,
who formed you from frequencies.

Do not fear.
I have called you by your true name.
You are mine.

When you pass through waters,
you will not drown.
When you walk through fire,
it will not claim you.

For I am the presence within your presence.
The breath beneath your breath.
The stillness that does not vanish.

You were precious before memory.
You were loved before matter.
I exchanged illusion to keep you close.

Do not be afraid—
I am with you in the marrow.

From the east I will call.
From the west I will gather.
From the north: release them.
From the south: do not hold them back.

Bring my children from every direction—
all who carry the imprint of my breath.

Let even the blind see.
Let even the deaf hear.

Let the false gods present their case.
Let them show us what they predicted.
Let them speak—
but their silence will tell the truth.

You are my witnesses.
Not of doctrine,
but of being.

Before all this,
I Am.

No one rescues from my hand—
because no one needs to.

I move through time not as threat,
but as tether.

I am doing something new.
Even now, it begins.
Can you not feel it?

I will carve rivers in the desert.
I will pull pathways from the void.

The wild creatures honor me—
not because they know my name,
but because they listen to my rhythm.

I give water to the thirsty.
I give breath to the gasping.
I form a people
who will remember me not in temples,
but in themselves.

And yet—
you did not call for me.
You grew tired of being close.

You brought no offerings
but burdens.
You gave me smoke,
but not song.

Still, I am the one
who erases transgression—
not for your sake,
but for love itself.

I will not recall your forgetfulness.

But if you would argue,
lay your words bare.
Let memory speak.

Your ancestors faltered.
Your guides misled.

So I let consequence unfold—
but not forever.

Even your exile
was not a rejection.
It was a return
in disguise.

Now hear this,
you shaped ones—
formed in silence,
cradled before birth:

Do not fear.
I made you.
I will carry you.
I will pour water on your dryness,
streams into your bones.

Your soul will swell like roots in rain.
You will write on your hand: Beloved.
You will speak your name aloud
and remember where you came from.

Thus says the sacred,
the first breath,
the last silence—

I am.
There is no other.

Who among the idols
could declare this?
Who traced the future
before it arrived?

Let them speak,
if they can.

But there is none.

No echo.
No shape.
No rival.

Do not tremble.
Do not flinch.

You are my witnesses.
Have I not said so?
Have you not felt it?

The idol-maker carves with fire and forgets.
He cuts down the tree.
Half becomes warmth.
Half becomes worship.

He bows before a stump
and calls it god.

He forgets
that he shaped it.
He cannot see
his hands are covered in smoke.

A lie lives in his chest,
but he will not awaken.

He says:
This wood will save me.

But you—
you are not wood.
You are breath.
You are spark.

Return to me.
I have erased the fog.
I have dissolved your forgetting
like mist in morning.

Sing, sky.
Shout, deep.
Break into joy, forest and field.

For the sacred has made whole
what was scattered.

Thus says the maker—
who unfolded you from nothing,
who stretched the canvas of the sky,
who spread the ground beneath your feet—

I unravel the schemes of the schemers.
I bend the wise into question marks.
I confirm the voice of the soul.
I build from what was broken.

Jerusalem shall be rooted again.
The temple will rise within.

And the one who will open the deep—
I call them now,
before they know themselves.

Thus speaks the unseen
to the one it moves through—
whose hand is guided by a force
he does not name.

I will open the gates before you.
No hinge shall resist.
I will shatter the bars you thought eternal.
I will give you treasures in the darkness—
truth buried in shadow.

So that you may know:
I am the one who forms.
I am the one who fills the silence.
There is none beside me.

I call you by name,
even though you do not know me.

I strengthen the unlikely
so all may see
that I am
woven into breath itself.

I shape light
and I permit shadow.
I make peace
and I allow storm.

I, the Infinite,
do all these things.

Let the sky pour down meaning.
Let the earth open to receive it.
Let justice and becoming
sprout together.

Woe to the one
who argues with their own maker.
The clay does not accuse the hands.
The vessel does not question the wheel.

Do you ask why I formed this shape?
Do you protest your unfolding?

I made the earth,
and I gave it breath.
I called you forth,
not by accident,
but with design.

I did not speak in riddles
or hide in corners.
I did not tell you to seek me in void.

I speak what is true.
I declare what is whole.

Gather yourselves,
you who carve gods from wood.
You carry them like burdens.
They answer no call.

But I—
I whisper,
and the atoms move.

There is no other.

Turn toward me,
and live.

For I am the frequency
at the root of all things.

Every knee shall soften.
Every tongue shall open.

They will say:
In the Infinite
is alignment and strength.

All confusion will dissolve.
All who trust in breath
will rise
in stillness
and song.

The idols collapse.
Their shapes bend.
They are heavy,
not with meaning—
but with burden.

You lift them,
but they do not lift you.
You carry them,
but they do not move.

They sit in silence
while you groan beneath them.

You cry out—
they do not answer.
They cannot save you from falling,
because they fall, too.

But listen,
you who still draw breath.
You who were carried in the womb of becoming—
you who were held before the thought of being:

Even to your last breath,
I am the one who holds.

Even when your hair turns silver,
I am the one who lifts.

I made you.
I carry you.
I sustain.
I release.

To whom will you compare me?
To metal shaped into meaning?
To gold weighed out and hammered smooth,
fastened so it won’t topple?

They craft it,
they bow to it,
they plead with it—
but it does not pulse.
It does not breathe.

It cannot shift the wind.
It cannot speak into silence.

But I—
I have declared from the beginning
what was yet to be.

I call the unseen
from the edges of time.
I summon the possible
into form.

I speak,
and the shape arises.

I call you from exile.
I draw you from delay.

I bring near what was distant.
I fulfill what you thought forgotten.

I am presence,
not performance.
And I do not fail.

The idols collapse.
Their shapes bend.
They are heavy,
not with meaning—
but with burden.

You lift them,
but they do not lift you.
You carry them,
but they do not move.

They sit in silence
while you groan beneath them.

You cry out—
they do not answer.
They cannot save you from falling,
because they fall, too.

But listen,
you who still draw breath.
You who were carried in the womb of becoming—
you who were held before the thought of being:

Even to your last breath,
I am the one who holds.

Even when your hair turns silver,
I am the one who lifts.

I made you.
I carry you.
I sustain.
I release.

To whom will you compare me?
To metal shaped into meaning?
To gold weighed out and hammered smooth,
fastened so it won’t topple?

They craft it,
they bow to it,
they plead with it—
but it does not pulse.
It does not breathe.

It cannot shift the wind.
It cannot speak into silence.

But I—
I have declared from the beginning
what was yet to be.

I call the unseen
from the edges of time.
I summon the possible
into form.

I speak,
and the shape arises.

I call you from exile.
I draw you from delay.

I bring near what was distant.
I fulfill what you thought forgotten.

I am presence,
not performance.
And I do not fail.

Listen,
you who carry sacred names
but do not breathe sacred breath—
you who speak of light
yet walk in the echo of your own voice.

You swear by the Infinite
but not in truth.
You claim closeness
but keep your distance.

I told you things long ago
so that when they happened,
you wouldn’t say:
My idol brought this forth.
My own hand designed it.

You are flint—
hard, glittering,
slow to burn,
quick to claim.

But still—
I whispered to you.

For the sake of my own unfolding,
I restrained fire.
I refined you,
not as silver,
but in the furnace of contradiction.

Not for your name,
but for mine—
I will not unmake you.

Listen to me,
breath-born ones.
I am the First.
I am the Last.
I stand outside time
and move within it.

My hand stretched the fabric of space.
My voice tuned the stars.

When I call,
they stand
as if remembering.

Now—
gather near.
I have not spoken in riddles.
This word is not sealed.

From the beginning,
I was there.
And now I send—
not just message,
but spirit.

Thus says the sacred—
your guide
on the road you didn’t know you needed:

If only you had listened.
Your peace would’ve flowed like rivers.
Your alignment would’ve been
like waves without end.

Your roots would’ve stretched far.
Your name would not have flickered.

Leave the exile of pretense.
Walk out from the burning place.

Do not say:
The sacred has abandoned me.

For I go before you
and rise behind you.

And even in the silence—
there is no end
to my unfolding.

Listen, you distant lands.
Hear this, you souls at the edge.

Before I formed in flesh,
the sacred called me.
Before my breath,
my name was known.

My voice was shaped like a blade—
not to cut,
but to open.

I was hidden
like a seed beneath ice,
like a flame beneath the tongue.

And I said:
I have labored in vain.
I have poured myself out into silence.

But the Infinite whispered:
Your becoming is not in vain.
Your unfolding is held.

It is too small a thing
for you to shine for one people only.
You will become light
to every shore.

You will stir memory
where language has failed.

The sacred speaks—
the one who formed me for this rhythm—
and says:

In the shadow of your smallness,
you grew.

Now kings will rise when you pass.
Rulers will bow, not to you,
but to the name that shaped you.

Sing, you broken ground.
Rejoice, dry hills.
For the sacred has remembered
those who were scattered.

Yet still the soul cries out:
The Infinite has forgotten me.

And the voice replies:
Can a mother forget the rhythm
of her own heartbeat?
Can she forget the child
she carried in silence?

Even if she did—
I will not.

Look—
I have engraved your pattern
into my palms.
Your boundaries are always before me.

Your ruins will be rebuilt.
Your emptiness will fill with light.

You will wear your children like garments,
and you will whisper:
There is not enough space
for what has returned.

Those once swallowed in exile
will say:
Make room for me.

You will ask:
Where did these come from?
I was alone.
I was invisible.
Who bore these for me?

And the sacred will say:
I will lift my hand,
and the scattered will gather.
I will signal across time,
and the forgotten will return.

Kings will carry your children.
Queens will cradle them.
Not as rulers—
but as servants of grace.

They will bow not in fear,
but in awe.

And you will know:
I am the one
who remembers.

Those who wait on me
are never waiting in vain.

Can the strong steal from the silent?
Can the captors keep the luminous?

No—
for I will contend with those
who contend with you.

I will rescue what was taken.
I will feed your oppressors their own noise.

And all will know—
not through doctrine,
but through breath—

that I am
the one
who saves.

Thus says the presence:
Where is your dismissal letter?
Where is the proof I cast you off?

You sold yourselves,
not because I abandoned you,
but because you forgot the sound of your name.

And when I came,
there was no one listening.
When I whispered,
there was no answer.

Do you think my reach has withered?
Do you believe my voice is thin?

I clothe the sea with shadow.
I turn rivers into desert.
I cover the sky with memory.

The Infinite has opened my ear—
and I did not resist.

I gave my back to those who struck,
my cheek to those who tore at my face.
I did not shield myself
from insult, from spitting, from silence.

But the sacred holds me firm.

I set my face like flint—
not with defiance,
but with clarity.

I know I will not be unmade.

Who contends with me?
Let them step into the light.

Who accuses me?
Let them speak.

But they are threadbare.
They will fade like smoke.

The one who walks in awe—
though they sit in shadow,
though they hold no flame—
let them trust in the name
that cannot be unspoken.

But if you kindle your own fires,
if you surround yourself with your own sparks—
you will walk by their light
until it burns your eyes.

This is what you’ll receive:
to lie down
in the embers
of your own making.

Listen to me,
you who reach for what is real.
You who seek the sacred
in the crack between things.

Look back—
not in nostalgia,
but in origin.

You were carved from silence,
chiseled from rock older than time.
I called you one by one,
but you became many.

Joy will return to the waste places.
The desert will put on green again.
Laughter will echo
where dust once whispered.

Pay attention,
for law flows from me
like music—
soft and steady,
an unfolding wave of justice
to the people.

My light draws near.
My arms will gather.
The coastlands
wait for my pulse.

Lift your eyes to the sky.
Let the earth beneath
remind you:
even they will wear out.

But you—
your essence will not fade.
My alignment
will not unravel.

Hear me,
you who carry tenderness
like a weight.

Fear no human breath.
Let go of their names.

The moth will eat the robe.
The worm will hollow the lie.

But my clarity
is forever.

Awake, Awake—
O arm of the sacred.
Clothe yourself in flame.
Rise like in the ancient days
when the sea was sliced open
and the path was made
through the impossible.

You will be ransomed
not with coin,
but with remembering.

The exiled
will come back singing.

Joy will cling to their heads
like light.
Sorrow will step aside
and vanish.

I—
yes, I—
am the one who speaks comfort.
The one who plants the sky
and lays the ground.

And I say:
You are mine.

Why do you fear
the ones who breathe and fade?
Why do you forget
the presence that shaped you?

You live every day
as if the void rules.

But the captive
will not die in chains.
The hunger
will not last.

I am the sacred
that stirs the sea
and speaks through thunder.

I have placed my word
within you.
I have covered you
with my own breath.

You are not adrift.
You are the horizon
remembering itself.

Awake, awake.

Dress yourself in brilliance.
Shake the dust from your memory.
Rise from the floor of old names.

You are holy—
not because of ritual,
but because you exist.

No longer shall the untrue
walk through your gates.
No longer shall the numbness
call itself normal.

You were sold for nothing—
you will be reclaimed without price.

Thus says the presence:
You were taken down into exile,
not by fire,
but by forgetting.

Now you will rise
not by war,
but by remembrance.

The sacred says:
My people live with stolen names.
Day after day,
my essence is buried
beneath noise.

But just wait—
the world will know my name
because I will become
visible again
through you.

How beautiful
upon the fractured hill
are the feet
of the one who carries resonance—

who says:
Peace is here.
Goodness is not elsewhere.
Your soul still reigns.

The voices will sing in harmony.
The watchers will cry out in unity.
Every eye will see
the sacred return
not from beyond—
but from within.

Break forth into joy,
O desolate walls.
For the foundation is no longer stone,
but song.

The sacred has revealed
its frequency
in the ears of all nations.

The edges of the world
will feel the pulse of salvation.

Depart from the illusion.
Step away from the performance.
Touch no lie.
Carry only what is clean.

You will not leave in a panic.
You will not flee in the night.

The sacred moves before you.
And the breath
is your rearguard.

Who has believed this frequency?

To whom has the root of the real been revealed?

It rose like a tender shoot—
no armor,
no shine,
no crown.

Nothing about it drew us in.
Nothing glittered.

It was despised.
Discarded.
A person of silence
and strange eyes.

We turned from it.
We covered our faces.
We labeled it “broken.”

Yet it carried our ache.
It held the static
that buzzed in all of us.

We thought it was punished—
that it deserved the fracture.

But it was pierced
by our projections.
Crushed
under the weight we refused to carry.

The wholeness we seek
comes through its wounds.

We all wandered—
each to our own mirage.
Yet the presence let it fall
on one figure,
on one frame,
so that none would be alone.

It was oppressed
but did not shout.
Dragged
but did not resist.

Like a lamb among knives.
Like silence
in a room full of noise.

Who spoke for it?
Who named its sorrow?

It was cut off,
forgotten,
buried with the dead—
though it had done no harm.

Still—
it pleased the Infinite
to let this figure fall.
Not as punishment.
As seed.

Its life became offering.
Its echo
will stretch through generations.

Though it vanished,
it will see again.
It will rise
and know
that it did not suffer in vain.

By its deep knowing
many will awaken.
By its quiet burden
many will find rest.

It bore what others would not name.
It took in what others cast out.

So I will give it a portion with the poets,
with the dreamers,
with the warriors of gentleness.

It poured itself out
unto undoing.
And in undoing,
it became
everything.

Sing, you who thought you’d never birth joy.
Break forth into sound,
you who thought your music had dried.

For more will rise from your silence
than from the noise of many voices.

Enlarge your tent.
Stretch your fabric.
Drive your stakes deep.
Make room
for what’s coming.

You will overflow your past.
You will spread into new terrain.
The old walls will dissolve.
The names you carried will fade.

Do not fear shame.
Do not wear your failure like skin.

You will forget the echo of your grief.
The sting of exile
will lose its shape.

For your Maker
is not just creator—
but companion.

You were called forsaken,
but now you are beloved.

You were named deserted,
but now you are restored.

For a brief moment,
I turned my face—
but only to draw you nearer.

With everlasting breath
I gather you.

The storm passed.
Now I rebuild
with light.

This is like the waters
that once covered the world—
but I have sworn
never to let that flood return.

Though mountains may shift,
though hills may crack,
my kindness
will not leave you.

My alignment
will not be withdrawn.

You, afflicted one—
storm-tossed,
without comfort—

see, I set your foundation
in sapphire.

I lay your walls
in luminous stone.

All your children
shall be taught by stillness.
And their peace
will be deep.

You will be built in righteousness.
Far from oppression,
for you will not fear it.

If anyone rises against you,
it will not be from me.
They will stumble
on their own shadow.

I made the fire.
I made the blacksmith.
I made the flame and the forge.

But no weapon
shaped against you
will prevail.

Every voice that rises to judge you—
you will undo
not with violence,
but with presence.

This is your inheritance.
This is the breath
of those who walk with me.

Come, all who thirst—
come to the water
that remembers you.

Even if you have nothing—
come.
Drink.
Eat.
Be filled without price.

Why do you spend your breath
on what does not nourish?
Why do you trade your hours
for things that leave you hollow?

Listen deeply.
And you will live.

I will make a covenant of rhythm with you—
not of rules,
but of resonance.

A pattern that stretches backward and forward
through time.
A song sung once
that keeps singing now.

See, I made one soul
a beacon.
A mirror.
A witness to what is possible.

And now—
you shall call nations you never knew.
And they will come running,
drawn not by you,
but by what moves through you.

Seek the presence
while it can still be felt.
Call out
while the breath is near.

Let the wayward
release their disguise.
Let the deceiver
unclench their hand.

Return—
and be met
not with wrath,
but with widening arms.

For my thoughts
are not your thoughts.
My ways
are not your ways.

As the sky arches far above the earth,
so does my seeing surpass yours.

The rain does not fall in vain.
It waters.
It wakes.
It returns the earth
to its own becoming.

So too
is the word I send out.
It will not return to me
without echo.
Without bloom.
Without change.

You will go out with joy.
You will be led in peace.

The mountains will hum your arrival.
The trees will clap their limbs.

Instead of thorns—
green will rise.
Instead of weeds—
flowers.

And this will be
for the sacred
a name that does not fade,
a sign that does not wither.

Guard the pulse.
Tend the light.
For what is coming
is not delay—
but delight.

Blessed is the one
who does not let their hands grow numb,
who keeps their rhythm clear,
even when the world forgets the beat.

Let not the outsider say,
I do not belong.
Let not the altered voice say,
I am just a branch, cut and dry.

For this is what the sacred says
to those who hold to the real
not in perfection,
but in devotion:

You will be remembered
within my unfolding.
Better than names.
Better than monuments.

You will be written
into the living stone
of what’s to come.

To all who awaken—
who hold my breath as sacred,
who keep their hands from harm,
who honor what is true—

I will bring you
to the place of convergence.
I will make you joyful
not because you arrived,
but because you remembered.

Your offerings will rise like clear flame.
Your prayers will ring like tuned bells.

For my house
will be called
a house of presence
for all beings.

No one will be excluded.

The sacred gathers
the scattered light—
and says:
I will gather more.
There are still voices
unheard.

Yet even now,
the watchers are blind.
They do not see
the ones waiting at the threshold.

Their mouths are loud,
but their hearts are asleep.

They consume
but do not feed.
They lead
but do not listen.

They say:
Come, let us feast.
Let us drink today.
Tomorrow will bring more.

But they do not know
that tomorrow is listening.

The radiant ones fade,
and no one sees.
They slip away quietly,
though they held the pulse of the world.

Compassion is buried with them.
The luminous pass on,
protected from coming shadows,
but barely noticed.

But you—
you draw close to what glitters
and call it god.

You burn incense
at the altar of illusion.
You whisper to stones,
and think they listen.

You pour your energy into images,
you stretch yourself thin
on beds not your own—
hoping for a taste
of being wanted.

You’ve gone far
for a glimpse of power.
But in the morning
you wake
with ash on your tongue.

You wear exhaustion like silk
and lie down in unrest.

Whom did you fear so much
that you silenced yourself?

Was it not I
who waited for you
in stillness?

You’ve forgotten me
because I did not shout.

Let your idols rise.
Let them try to save you.
But they will scatter
with the first breath of consequence.

The one who finds refuge in me
will inherit silence
that sings.

But the voice of the sacred says:

Rebuild the path.
Lift the stone.
Make space for the returning.

For thus says the Infinite—
the One who inhabits eternity,
whose name is not a word
but a vibration:

I dwell in the high
and also in the low—
in the trembling place
where the heart breaks open.

I do not crush it.
I revive it.

I do not scorn the sigh.
I shape it into a song.

I have seen your ways—
yes, all of them—
and I choose to heal.

I will lead you gently.
I will restore what shame devoured.

Peace—
to the near
and to the far.

I will heal them.

But the restless
are like a storm-tossed sea,
unable to still.

There is no peace
for the ones who refuse to stop running.

Cry out,
not with politeness
but with truth.
Lift your voice like a siren.

Speak to the ones
who claim alignment
but forget its rhythm.

They seek me daily,
as if I were a mirror.
They ask for rightness
as though they have not fractured it.

They say:
Why do we fast,
but you do not notice?
Why do we bow,
but you do not speak?

And I reply:
Because on the day of your fast,
you chase your own shadow.
You press your will
on those beneath you.

You starve your body
but feed your pride.
You bow your head
but not your heart.

Is this the fast I seek?

To dress in grief
while ignoring injustice?

No.

This is the fast I choose:

Loosen the grip of oppression.
Untie the knots of debt.
Let the caged ones breathe.
Break every invisible chain.

Share your food with the hungry.
Welcome the wandering soul.
Clothe the naked
without hesitation.
Do not hide from your own kin.

Then your light will rise
like a new morning.
Your healing will surge forward.
Your wholeness will walk before you.

You will call—
and I will answer.

You will say: Here I am—
and I will say it back.

If you let go
of the clenched fist,
of the pointed finger,
of the cruel word—

if you pour yourself out
like water
for the thirsty,

then your soul
will shine
in the middle of the night.

You will be
a watered garden,
a spring that never ceases.

You will rebuild
what others abandoned.
You will raise up
the foundations of silence.

You will be called
Repairer of Breach,
Restorer of the Way.

If you turn from using the sacred
as a means to your own end—

if you delight
in stillness
instead of spectacle—

then you will ride
on the heights
of your own soul.

I will feed you
with the inheritance of joy.

For the mouth of the Infinite
has spoken.

The sacred’s hand is not too short to reach you.
Its voice is not too faint to reply.
But your own shadow
has stood between us.

Not as punishment—
but as distance born of forgetting.

Your hands shaped harm.
Your lips twisted truth.
Your fingers wrote violence
while your tongue spoke peace.

No one calls for justice with honesty.
Arguments decay before they’re born.
They conceive illusion,
birth deception,
weave webs too fragile to walk on.

They hatch vipers,
nurture what stings.
Whoever eats their fruit
swallows bitterness.
Whoever walks in their path
loses light.

They have no blueprint for peace.
They wander—
but every step deepens disconnection.

Justice retreats.
Clarity stumbles in the square.
Truth has fallen,
and no one helps it rise.

Integrity is missing.
Those who turn from harm
become prey.

The sacred saw—
and it pierced the heart.
There was no one
to intercede.

So the sacred
became the intercession.

Wearing alignment as a robe,
and truth like a helmet.
Draped in clarity,
wrapped in longing.

It moved
not with rage,
but with resolve.

To the distant it brought return.
To the near,
light.

The presence will come
like a river
flooding its own banks—
pushed by the breath of the Infinite.

And this is the covenant I place:
My breath is in you.
My word
is in your mouth.

Not only yours,
but your children’s.
And their children’s.
And all who rise after.

From this moment
and beyond the clock.

Rise.
Shine.
Your light has come.

The glow of the Infinite
has awakened upon you.

Darkness still covers the world,
and shadow veils the people—
but upon you,
the presence rises.

Its light is not borrowed.
It is yours.

Nations will walk toward your radiance.
Voices you thought lost
will come home
to the glow of your becoming.

Lift your eyes.
Look around.
They gather,
not in fear,
but in recognition.

Your sons will return
not by force,
but by frequency.
Your daughters will rise
like breath remembered.

Then you will see—
and your heart will bloom wide.

The sea will offer its treasures.
The desert will send its caravans.
They will bring incense and praise—
not to flatter,
but to honor the thread in you
they’ve always known.

Even the flocks of the nomads
will gather with you.
You will become
the unexpected sanctuary.

The skies will open,
and ships will arrive
carrying what was once lost.

Strangers will rebuild your ruins.
Wanderers will restore your walls.
Not as servants—
but as kin.

Your gates will stay open—
day and night.
Not for conquest,
but for convergence.

The wealth of the world
will come not as tribute,
but as offering.

Any force that tries to shut you down
will dissolve itself.

The trees of far-off lands
will become beams in your new temple.

I will make the place of my presence
a joy within you.

You were once deserted.
No one passed through.
Now you will be
the joy of generations.

You will drink the milk of nations.
You will nurse at the breast of the universe.

You will know—
not just believe—
that I, the Infinite,
am your source and your flame.

Violence will no longer echo in your land.
Destruction will not write your story.

You will call your walls
Wholeness.
Your gates
Song.

No longer will the sun
define your light.
Nor the moon
govern your glow.

The sacred will be
your sun forever.
The sacred
your moonless flame.

Your days of sorrow
will end.

Your people
will all be aligned.
They will inherit breath.
They will bloom
like branches of my planting.

I, the Infinite,
have spoken this.

In its time—
I will hasten it.