- in the name of Allah -

"..till he has a real heron-mark sword..."

in the light of this life, with its drama and its drought, so fickle what's found, how does a seeker convey to his sought, how his Home isn't here, but with a lifetime of deeds is wrought, the heart's destiny manifest, not by his will or his voice, rather the sum of bounties and mercies his Maker gifted in choice. this place, this plane, these people, these parades, in me all they'll ever see, a jester of contradiction to their conformity, while the only pull inside my soul, goes to a place I've never seen, but felt I've always known, the pinnacle of peaks, ever-rising with clouds, never falling away from lack of means. 

such is my affliction, given by the dreamer before she departed, that I remain not just a thinker, but one who attains atop the heavens, the End of a road we'd long since started, in the fullest of forms, as the greatest of Gifts, lavished by the Owner of all that there is, stamped on the heart of His slave, the Seal of His contentment, with this wisest of trades.

persevere, dear dreamer, past the days and the nights, past the changing temps, past the shifting tides, towards His acclaim at last, that He may say of your soul, "This slave is Mine."