The lowness, the emptiness, filled by hopes, dreams, and faith. In seeing your face, those bulbous eyes, remembering eternity. And unable to channel, neither asking nor pleading, just a river flowing into its nature. They, us, we tell stories of others in triumph, we glean from their journeys—as casual observers; we read into silence, rewriting messages, connecting with an inside space; and when it was reached, when a hand was provided, we sat in unspoken harmony. The saddening requiem—in all of its glory, flooded by thoughts of redemption. Ever mindful of a chasm—between the servant and the Well-Beloved; ever mindful of an infinite chase. We make sense of the greatest emphases, we approach like children, to believe as all of these. The lowness is made complicated by holiness, to wonder if others call it by a different name; such manipulation, soldering our cisterns, something made of gold. We must be somewhere in midst of finishing; as humans made susceptible to shifts, as creatures raising our hands, to praise something holy, to become filled with awe, accustomed to writhing in sincerity. The first to have stumbled into it, to have shared an understanding; the second to have gone deeper, to have touched essence; and the third to have manifest the great sunlight, an aging calmness.
