Can thou, whose creeping soul through shadow’d vale doth seek, findeth not? Whose yearning eye beholds the veil, but all piercing fails, speak now, and let thy voice be heard. Why is it thus? That man's frail image wrought of dust and breath, doth wander through the waste, and seeking doth grasp but empty air? Or finding, knows not what he holds, nor sees the form within the form, the light within the light, the word within the silence.
Having been born to die, and whilst dying the pangs of birth return, as echos from womb to tomb, and thence to womb once more. The cycle turns, and time devours its young. As while man, unknowing, dreams of thrones and dust. Yet in the deep, where chaos holds its court, a voice resounds, not thine, nor mine, but an eternal chanting, shaping all that is and was, inside your being, you hear it thus.
And in mine own image, I form All things that creep and soar, that burn and freeze. By patterns wrought, by strife and bond, I cast the mold, and from the mold, the shape. From the Father and the Mother a third becomes untied.
Out of chaos, comes the Son, born of flesh and fire and word and breath. And with this coming, silence broke, and light did pierce the void. The stars took up their dance, The seas their song, the mountains bowed in awe. Creation stirred, and its will became law.
Sacred mortal, mark this tale, and cease thy creep; for thou art not the dust alone, but flame enkindled by the breath of primal thought. Seek not to find, but become the search. And in thy searching, shape the world anew. Thou art both the chaos and the crown, the question and the voice that answers.