Oh my moth, my river, how I hunger for your touch, how a flame burns with the desire to have the moth become engulfed in it, how the sea waits with open arms to have a tributary enter its salty sweetness and lose its identity. Oh my sweet sister mist that carried me as dew drops in a garden, causing my impurities to eddy around on a swab of rain, finding ecstasy as the air sucked only the pure water in me as ambrosia to an Aghori.
Mayhap the dawn shall come and leave me as mist on some distant shore, or perhaps even on the gold leaf that adorns the temple to the Unseen God latent in us all. Whenceforth shall spring this God who gives daily battle for the best in every last one of us, that truth alone shall triumph and the music set aright and Grace bestowed upon us all.
All this we ask in the name of the Istari, friends of our myriad races that people this planet – the ones who held their true course – Radagast and Gandalf