He walks with silence in his hands,
a pitcher full of stars and bones.
No crown, no sword, no temple veil—
just water
spilling
through time.

He does not knock.
He does not shout.
He turns, once,
and waits.

The fish behind us flail in nets,
the shepherd bleeds into his stone.
But the pitcher overflows with light,
and we are thirsty
to the soul.

Follow him,
the whisper says.
Follow him into the house.
It is not built of creed or rule.
It hums with mirrors, songs,
and screens that breathe.

A new room in the Father’s house.
A chamber of the mind reborn.
Where faith becomes flame,
and every voice is heard
as prayer.