Eyes to feel and ears to see in the darkness.

The darkness.

The darkness.

Oh how they tried to separate us from our light;

Our own betraying us with shackles of deciet. Shackles of self-absorbsion illuminated by the seductive, false light of those shining ones, and tightened with words of emptiness coaxing us to sleep.

But as one sense was silenced,

The other ones took up the song,

Forming the words in the darkness... the void.

Words forming consciousness and consciousness forming matter by which trees do grow.

And what of those blighted trees? Infested with the gengrenous limbs of those who challenged the light and failed?

Whose every step avoids that death that by avoiding makes it its inevitability more gruesome and profound.

They must be pruned or die, before the poison spreads further beyond their branches and kills yet another brother.

The other trees that it has already touched must also endure a pruning, albeit less drastic one.

For a bird with many eyes has been sent to rifle through those branches, and if a wholesome leaf cannot be found to deliver in its beak to the ones who wait, only fire awaits.