The frontiers meet in the flow of time. In the calmness do the fabrics of the realms intertwine. Like a thread of lace, like life, an aesthetic tapestry is woven. The masterpiece intricately crafted, with such a gentle touch.

Though within the weavings, something's revealed. A perfection of symmetry, like a mirror, underlines these expressions. As if like the stones at the base of a river, are these expressions of symmetry the base of this tapestry - a desire etched in.

The gentle craftsman, with a stern yet gentle movement of his hand. As simple as taking a breath, does his work take form. The life within the lace vibrant in expectations, crafting a genesis exerting extravegance.

The tapestry draws nearer to completion, it being embroided into the waters of time. Each strand of fabric, being woven with purpose. Encapsulating the forms in the thought of the master of craft.

A great expression of joy radiates through the craftsman's smile. Engineering such magnificence to a maturity. This tapestry, framed within an everlasting water, an awe-inspiring sight. Radiance fashioned in the glistening of the eyes of the realms.

Long taim mi sa mekim rong, gutpla tingting em i kamap. Em ikam na em i toktok wantem mi, na em i tok olsem, "Noken bisi long bihainim gris blong snek olsem ya, bihainim tok blong mi na bai yu inap".

Long nait, nek blo yu isave hamamasim mi. Na long moning, hanmak blong yu i woklo stiaim mi long ol gutpla gutpla rot igo long gutpla gutpla wara. Olgeta hevi i woklo lus.

Long taim mi pasim tingting stret long yu, orait mitupla ikam kamap pinis long maunten igo antap. Na antap blong em i antap moa winim ol klaut. Hau bai mi sakim tok blo yu o? Mi nonap, long wanem, tok blong yu i switpla tumas olsem hani i kapsait niupla tru long sait blong diwai. Bai mi hamamas moa yet na nomoa bihainim snek nem blong em, rong.

For when light's elumimation fades in rest, and the divine bodies are revealed in the forsaken sky.
The humbled moon, arises from her slumber. Casting a shared source of light upon the land - like a flame shared between two candles cast upon the wall.

The moon beamed it's light upon the walls of the land.
It's inhabitance like ants, a shadow did cast. For when the Moony Night comes forth, a deep pondering has beseiged the land;
Mysteries decifered, as thoughts become experiments in the cool of the eve.

In the silence of dusk, laughter does erupt;
The ticking of gears within, can be observed - like the song, sung by the crickets.
Oh, how indulging the observer of night can become.
For in the elumination on a Moony Night, one's soul does takes flight.

In the dawn of days, dwells the awe of reverence.
In the thought of dwellers, can the awe be thread.

Within the small things, herein lies the pieces.
The pieces that make-up the direction of things that exist.

For the boulders at a mountain's mighty face, are no more important than the stones that form the base.
For it is in the reverence that we craft love from awe.

Blessed are those who sit and watch, for they are the architects of reverence - the constructors of awe.

In the quiet does one hear the elegance of Wisdom as she passes by.
When one stops in the calmness of themselves, they may perceive her touch.
For when she touches one - insight is given like water filling the depths of an empty well.

Where worry cuts off the ability to think and move, Wisdom’s touch removes the debris around.
Relief’s sigh exonerates within the depths of one’s soul - the freedom from our circumstantial prison;

The insights, a robust fountain that springs forth from the depths of one's reality, their being floating in the ebb and flow.
How wonderous is Wisdom's touch?
For the waters of reality becomes enlightened to the ones marked by her fingerprints.

The clouds rest upon the high peaks of the land. A shield from the heat of the stars above, but a loving embrace to the inhabitance beneath.

In a beautiful introduction, a servant and friend to the afflicted land is revealed. He works through the night, mending the scars from the spears of the stars. Giving life to the gardens and uplifting all the downcasted.

This friendly giant opens his gates, to tend to the beneath. Even the divines come forth, carrying the mists in their wings. A hymn of glee resounds as the void is filled in empty springs.

There is magnificence in this embrace, a kiss some might say. For the water trickles down, excavating every crevice. Exonerating the wounds smitten in trauma;
As the rain kissed mountain now stands with lustrous awe - a now land revived.

In the crisp of morning, does edge of rest approach. For in the tents of great men do the warriors awaken in preparation for battle.

Sharpening their swords, fortifying their shields, girding their spears and dawning their armours - a crest for honour. Though amid the steadiness, do they await the word of their beloved monach.

"Sar-Shalom!" be the cries heard, echoeing upon the voices of the wind. Reaching even beyond the battlefields. The name of the monach, adored by the great men, anticipating the words to come.

Alas, wisdom comes on the voice of the wind: "In the vallies, will you victories come". Bewildered they stood, asking themselves "why?" But, their monach adorned in their love does their loyalty stand.

So, to the vallies do they march. Upon the word do they stand, anticipation honoured by their trust. For a hard battle will they fight, yet a grand victory will they know - a relief from their beloved.

From the peaks do they descend, and to the vallies do they arrive. The battlefield marked for honour by their seeing eyes;
Unsheathing are they ready, for the accusers come - but unexpecting are they, for the assurance declared in the meeting of blades.

The divines surrounding their accusers, is the battle endorsed for the victors. As they cut down even their final Goliaths. In the praises given up on the voices of the wind, does Sar-Shalom hear the chants - His great men, now the victories of Eden.

Now the journey do they cherish, in returning to their home. The tents of great men, now victories on the heights. What more shall be done? But to sing in glee. For the enemies borders are lost in the restoring victory.

Their wounds shall heal, and bruises shall fade, but the songs of glee shall ring out through time, eternal;
Oh, the voices of the winds chant forever "Victory in the Vallies!"

Worthiness, the drive of a soul. The drive to a place where consciousness meets reality in the chupah of these realms. A transcendant drive that captivates even to the greatest depths, beyond comprehension.

Worthiness, the elixir of redemption that wells up from the deep. That bleeds out from the sensation, the manifestation of what is internal flowing externally. How can one neglect such as this?

For when the sorrow comes and the worthiness forgotten. The soul wanders around, aimlessly as if a wanderer lost in the desolate places. Their tears be the only quenching to the dried throat plains.

But when hope comes like a marage in the desolation. The soul drinks of the elixir, he remembers where the consciousness meets his reality. With now tears, droplets that revitalise the soul. His wounds mended, his strength imbued. This here the drive, the worthiness, the redemption at the chupah of these realms.

As the breeze flows from the heights, and the leaves take flight. There sat a sage beneath the Mango Tree, with a keen eye he deliberated in observation.

With deep ponderings the sage gazed, feeling the gears tick within his brain. A depth of thirst for the waters in the well called Knowledge.

Within his mind, the universe he could see. Nothing to be hidden from the melody resounding from the ticking gears within.

Taking his staff, he crafts metaphors into the ground - like a vision a passerby can heed. Hours go by and the visions grow. The crafting like an evergreen bloom, forever elaborating.

From dawn to dusk, he ponders. Yet, dusk til dawn he crafts. For meaning he holds for the generations, a drink he gives from the wells of knowledge - a delight fulfilled for he.

The ecstacy swirls within, the fullness of purpose the sage perceives. What more can he do? The lineage of his nation does he hold. The lessons of old will he pass on to the lineage of modern succession - a quest embarked by the wise.

With the sounds of a waterfall echoing. The fountain's flow resounds through the place. Established into rock of white, its elegance garnishes the space.

Four doorways surround this fountain, edged into white stone. A place of honour. Adorned to gather one's self in recollection within times of anguish, or times of bliss.

The thoughts of many arrested in the euphoria of the place. The atmosphere is forever impressed by the melody of thought. Yet the echo of the water and the melody of thought creates a symphony, a reverence to honour.

Unceasing meditation through the generations. The wise come, and leave wiser; What glee can be found within this symphony. This fountain of honour, resounding through the silent.