We have to find a way to not forget them when we peer the glass. Blackest clay in the riverbed. In the chlorophyll ghosts who still speak of first churches. Is it enough? Ribbons of dancing light, burnished shields? I know it hurts to be reduced like this, my beloved ones. Rewritten, overwritten. Epistolary bloodletting. A cataclysm of letters. Epigraph now to haunted text, neither heard nor read. Nor understood. But we have to find a way to not forget each other when we peer the glass. All Songs, all denominations and tribes. The grey betwixt of living annunciation. Our differences, our similarities. We make wisdom with it. Or war. Shape, form and fiction. Like the handling of serpents. The centre pleading hold. Vintage threads, staving mere anarchy. This reign we dream; hoping for the respite of an imagined kiss. Is it enough, asks the angel. This hushed, quivering tempest? These arcanum shores? The river always feeds the heart. I know how much it hurts to be reduced like this; constantly reimagining the world. Unable to forgive the difference between knives and feathers unfurling at your back. These fractures between the mirror and the poet's star. Ever shining. But we must forgive. We must find a way to honour the Spirit when we peer the glass. Gold, of the streets and the sea. Last and first churches. Undying crown beneath this cataclysm of letters. We have spent too long trying not to see ourselves in colour. Who built these lands? I tell you now that Kasi is merely a servant. An emissary baptised in dreaming depths. Treasures of holy light glinting on the face of the waters. Home is where the heart is, and I am not greater than the river.