He carries softly through the wind. His voice as swift as the receding
night, behind the clouds of truth. His spirit calm and free, like the
butterfly from the west. Saturated in the deserts of fayth, alone he
lives in solemn devotion. His voice illuminated with light, speaking out
like thunder, and striking the ears like lightning. Let it be known, the
facade of the world, compelled in his soul. Shrouded by darkness for so
long, that it becomes the light. Or blinded by the light an eternity,
that it became the darkness. Forever this truth he must carry, and seek
to enlighten the world of the way. Patiently awaiting that joyous day,
must we hope and pray.


Penned by my hand on the 16th of Fas, in the year 484 AD.