The spirit of the Infinite
rests upon me—
not as crown,
but as current.

I have been anointed
to bring breath to the bruised,
to stitch the silence
with good news.

To bind up the broken.
To open the doors of those
still locked inside themselves.

To declare that now
is the time of turning,
that the wound
is not the end.

To comfort the mourners—
not with words,
but with presence.

To place on them
a garland instead of grief,
oil of gladness
in place of heavy air,
a robe of radiance
instead of spirit collapse.

They will be called
trees of alignment,
planted by the sacred
to show what love looks like
when it roots.

They will rebuild the ruins
others forgot.
Raise up foundations
that outlived memory.

Strangers will come
not as invaders,
but as co-laborers.
They will tend your fields.
They will gather beside you.

You will be called
keepers of mystery,
tenders of light,
vessels of the unseen.

Instead of shame,
you will carry double joy.
Instead of disgrace,
a lasting inheritance.

For I, the Infinite,
love what is just.
I hate the theft of truth.

I will faithfully give you
a covenant
not of rules—
but of echo.

Your lineage
will ripple outward.
They will be recognized
not by blood,
but by light.

And you—
you will rejoice in your becoming.

Your soul
will wear the sacred
like a garment.

As the earth brings forth bloom,
as gardens stir with seed—
so shall the Infinite cause justice to rise,
and praise
to sing itself
into being.

For the sake of your becoming,
I will not keep silent.
For the sake of your light,
I will not stay still—
until your wholeness blazes like morning
and your liberation
like a torch no wind can extinguish.

The ones who wander
will see your radiance.
The ones who once named you
will now speak your new name—
a name whispered
by the mouth of the sacred.

You will be
a crown of shimmering wonder,
held in the hand
of the Infinite.

No longer will you be called
Forsaken.
No longer will your soul be labeled
Desolate.

You will be called
My Joy Is In You.
Your land will be called
Aligned.

For the sacred takes delight in you,
and your boundaries
will be married
to meaning.

As a youth binds with passion,
so will your wholeness embrace you.
As a lover rejoices,
so will the sacred
sing over your name.

I have set watchers
on your walls—
voices that do not rest,
souls who remember
what the world forgets.

They will not grow quiet
until your becoming
is known
in every direction.

The Infinite has promised:
I will not let your harvest
be consumed by the hollow.
The fruit of your effort
will not be stolen by noise.

You who gather
will eat in joy.
You who tend
will drink in the courts of resonance.

Go through,
go through the gates.
Clear the path.
Make the way smooth
for the returning soul.

Lift up the signal—
a banner not of nation,
but of breath.

Look—
the sacred speaks
to every coast and cloud:

Say to the luminous one:
Your becoming has come.

You will be called:
Sought After.
You will be named:
Dwelling Not Abandoned.

Who is this
rising from the edge of endings,
robes stained not with shame,
but with struggle?

“I walk in solitary clarity,”
says the figure.
“I have pressed the wine of consequence alone.
There was no one beside me.”

Their garment bears the print of history,
each thread marked by choices
made in silence.

“I looked for a companion—
but found no hand.
So I became the hand.
My breath became the balance.”

And the year of release surged forward.
The quiet hour of reckoning
awoke from sleep.

Then—
the tone softens.
A memory returns.

I will recall
the tenderness of the Infinite,
the hush of mercy,
the warmth once worn
like a second skin.

“You were our guide,”
we say.
“You did not save us through angels,
but through presence.
You lifted us,
you carried us
through every collapse.”

But we—
we turned.

And something grieved.
The sacred became still.
The breath withdrew
into silence.

Still, we remembered:
You are our origin.
You named us
when we had no name.

Why do you let our longing
harden into distance?

Return,
for the sake of your becoming ones—
the ones who still call your name
even in the dark.

For a moment
we were yours.
Your signature was on our soul.

But we drifted.

We have become
what we do not recognize.
Our patterns
feel foreign.

We are your vessels.
Your shaping
formed us.

Do not rage forever.
Do not remember the fracture
more than the flame.

See—
we are your people still.
All of us
a field
awaiting rain.

 Oh, if only you would tear the veil—

if only the sky would open like fabric—
if presence would descend
like fire on dry wood,
like breath on the embers of forgetting.

If the mountains of memory
would shake at your touch,
as they did when you once moved
through silence
like thunder in the soul.

You came
when no one was asking.
You arrived
when we had forgotten to wait.

And still—
you did wonders.

You met those who held to the thread,
who walked with trembling
but didn’t let go.

But we unraveled.

We wore dust
as if it were skin.
Even our best moments
were like leaves
falling out of season—
scattered by winds
we summoned.

No one calls your name
like they used to.
No one clings.

You hid yourself—
and we let go.

Yet still—
you are the shaper.
We are the clay.
We are the breath
caught in your hands.

Do not stay angry.
Do not hold our forgetting forever.

Look—
we are yours.

Your cities are ruins.
The temples of song
have burned.
The sacred places
are silence.

Will you watch this forever?
Will you stay quiet
while what once pulsed
fades?

I let myself be found
by those who weren’t even looking.
I said, Here I am,
to those who didn’t know my name.

All day long
I stretched out my hands
to a people walking away—
speaking to the wind,
building altars to smoke.

They sit in shadows
and whisper to stones,
they eat what brings no life,
they declare themselves
too sacred to touch.

This smoke rises in my face—
not in anger,
but in ache.

Yet still—
I will not destroy it all.

There is something alive
in the cluster.
Do not discard the vine—
there is wine still forming.

My chosen ones
will dwell
in what was abandoned.

They will eat
and be full.
They will drink
and not thirst.

But those who forgot the thread—
they will name their gods
and find only echo.

I called—
but they didn’t answer.
I spoke—
but they didn’t listen.

Still—
this is what the sacred says:

My servants will sing
even in sorrow.
They will shine
even in exile.

You will leave behind
a name
others speak
with a wince.

But my beloved
will be called
by a new sound.

The past troubles
will not rise again.
They will dissolve
like mist at dawn.

For see—
I create new skies,
a new earth,
and the ache
will be unremembered.

Joy will rise
not as reaction
but as ground.

No more children born into doom.
No more lives
cut off like thread mid-weave.

They will build
and dwell.
They will plant
and taste.

No longer will they labor
only to feed another’s hunger.

For their days
will be like trees.
Their work
will echo beyond them.

Even before they call,
I will answer.
While they are still forming the question,
I will whisper the reply.

The lion will eat like the lamb.
The predator
will forget its hunger.

And nothing—
nothing—
will destroy
on this holy mountain
of becoming.

The sky is my breath.
The earth, my resting place.
What house could you build
to hold the endless?
What structure
could contain the formless?

All these things—
I made them.
Yet this is what I notice:
the one who bends low
in wonder,
whose heart
trembles at the silence between words.

Those who bring offerings
but empty of presence—
they pierce, they break, they burn—
but not with alignment.

As they have chosen illusion,
so illusion chooses them.

Listen—
a sound,
a roar from the city,
a voice
from the unnameable center.

Before she labored,
she birthed.
Before pain,
she held a soul in her arms.

Who has seen such a thing?

Can a world
be born in a single breath?

Can a people
rise in a single pulse?

Yet even before the ache
was named,
the cry was answered.

Rejoice with her—
the soul reborn.
All who mourned her,
all who thought she had vanished.

You will drink deeply
from the river of her peace.
You will be comforted
as a child
on the lap of the sacred.

And you will see—
and your bones will sing.

The breath of the Infinite
will pulse through what remains.

But look—
a fire comes
not to destroy,
but to clarify.

The sacred
sifts the heart
with flame.

By word,
by wind,
by witnessing.

Those who made rituals
their gods,
who chased smoke
instead of light—

they will meet the truth
they thought they could avoid.

For I know their doing.
I see the script
they try to rewrite.

But a gathering comes—
from every direction,
from every frequency.

And I will make from them
a signal,
a spark,
a new constellation.

They will bring offerings
not in gold,
but in selves.

I will take from them
poets and priests,
not bound by lineage,
but by listening.

And just as this sky
and this earth endure,
so too shall your light.

Every moment
shall bow
to the sacred now.

Every breath
shall echo
the name
beneath all names.

And they shall go out—
and see what was discarded,
what refused the breath—

and understand.

Some fires
do not consume.
They reveal.