He Who Awaits The Call, But Sees

Three Things Remain With Us From Paradise: Stars, Flowers And Children.

The Infernal Storm, Eternal In Its Rage, Sweeps And Drives The Spirits With Its Blast; It Whirls Them, Lashing Them With Punishment. When They Are Swept Back Past Their Place Of Judgment Then Come The Shrieks, Laments, And Anguished Cries; There They Blaspheme God's Almighty Power.

I Am Made Of God, Through His Grace. Such That Your Misery Touches Me Not, Nor Does Flame Of That Burning Assail Me.

O You Proud Christians, Wretched Souls And Small,/ Who By The Dim Lights Of Your Twisted Minds/ Believe You Prosper Even As You Fall,/ Can You Not See That We Are Worms, Each One/ Born To Become The Angelic Butterfly/ That Flies Defenseless To The Judgement Throne?

Heat Cannot Be Separated From Fire, Or Beauty From The Eternal.