Of one’s lament, of another’s tears, does great mourning flood the heart. For few can, more will, and most are.
Of nature’s residents, lo their wayward being. All at once driven in hunger by the distanced corpse, and all at once compelled in love their young. Eyes not of hate to kill their fellows, and
eyes not of mad lust for slaughter. Simply, they are. Simply, those eyes are undaunted when tasked with murder, steadfast when observing their life fluid pouring past wounds. These strange dwellers, they do not shriek at death and whimper, merely they are.

Of people, theirs is the vast cultural brew. Theirs, are eyes reminiscent of those eeriesome creatures. For, in the partaking of bread and wine, why, why should their gazes be downcast and grieved? Why such the cloaked sorrow, such the reluctance to converse? Why do they insist to enclose their starry pains? Do not even the grandeur of Lady Moon commune with that of the Heroic Sun? Or does not liberty’s wind ever become short of breath and rest in the heavens?

Surely so! And yet, simply, of all the mighty land beasts, they can.

Of a renowned assembly for wise men, among them, who will have been truly wise, say ye? Assuredly, none of the gathered elect, for they shall dub themselves sound and allknowing.

In the assembly of folly, there the wise be garnered. Now, in their company, might they bring recognition unto this cursed condition, this cursed obstinacy by way of man. Might the enlightened know their own faults and shortcomings, and deduce thus the reticence. For, apart from the convention of the unequivocally wise, many shall bear not this nameless misery.

Truly, then, these ridiculed and scoffed elders, truly they can.

Of the pure dove’s flight, across many the shattered land. Its beauty under the cover of its wings, its coat dabbed not with filth, but with the dust of wonder. Innocent being, of whence might thee hath come, to soar and soar again this broken world, to carry tears of a long faded glory. The glory from the beginning, and end, the glory appointed for everlasting and everlasting. Innocent being, must there not be woe in your eyes, must there be endurance in the soul? Come now,
weep, for the time to persevere has passed? joy is upon all earth.
Yes, yes this dove surely will.

Of the impending storm, a mighty goddess spurs forth her winged chariot. Power slumbers unto the divine warrior, as lightning like a spear strikes the landscape. And nevertheless, the part is to the whole, and be it that the whole is to the part. Though strong her charged fists, though able her right arm, what is strength if the multitudes defect her sacred banner? What is deity should the wind falter and the rain blaspheme its lady? Leadership is in the humility of the many, and their proclamation of one. These winds and those rains serve their patron, for adoration mars their existence, admiration their essence? and likewise, too, does the lady them. Without doubt, the elements and their mistress will.

Of a wizened wanderer, stalwart and faithful, despite having never seen compensation. The soles of his feet are scathed, and the skin disfigured? for sandals he has not, yet in spirit, boundless treasures are his to possess. Sour drink accompanied the day, and a weary fire by the night. Hardship mark the wanderer’s way, but blessings of awareness and self identity are his reward.

What, then, does he have a lack of? This beggar king who has made an acquaintance the muck on the ground, shamed mockingly to a mere loincloth and staff. This beggar king dressed in assurance and character, who has made acquaintances none other could have made, exalted in his vulnerability and need. Very truly, it is him who will.

Of the night’s stars, oh so elegant and true. Masked not unto flaws and nor with taint, behold, perfection shall be their title. They have accompanied the lost across the darkened land and the sailors across leagues of ocean. These guides of beauty whose abode is in the firmament, the deed to companion, friend, is as well bestowed unto thee. Yielding the sun to twilight, then therefore will be sighted a vast array of majesty, their twinkle strange and alluring. Certainly, they are.

Of the restless desert sands, provoked easily as to rampage and join by the consummation of kin. So also a mother to shelter wild creatures burrowed beneath her rocks, and the wrathful guardian to threaten intruders in her commanding dust storms. The sanddwellers, small and large, are safely collected and nursed within their mother’s hands although several may slip past, not all shall perish. This faceless woman of the desert, where she treads, then the land will be in turmoil.

Then the young prosper. For she sees her offspring devoured from beasts, hunger their war cry? for her patience is taut against even miniscule slights. Thus, she and her children are.

Of, now, the enigmatic tenants whose owe is to the forest? of men and the unconformities, their tenacity to isolation? of sages and the unlikely distinction from ill minded oafs? of the dove and her wayfaring, white feathers that like the pleasant skies at first brilliance? of the immortal entity, willing helpers come to serve, love a declaration in their substance? of the greyheaded traveler, his knees torn and shaken despite, both wealth aplenty and an entourage curious are thine? of the darkness arise peculiar lights, gifting splendor to those which are lackluster, direction of those directionless? of the high sands, dare not men approach, lest swallowed they shall, for, there, a fierce woman defends her lifeblood unto death. Of these, few can, more will, and most are. Few can change, more will change, and most are. They are unchanging. And of empiricism, pathos, or foolishness might the individual and the masses decipher the works, for decisions, in themselves, can, and will, and are changing.