Has the poem returned? Has the poet left a trail?
I feel guilty as I ask.
But there's no chirping bird today.
No swaking sparrow. I am quiet and still.
In part, I understand.
Though it be so, it does not give comfort to my curious heart. I wonder... I wish...
But what can I do now? I am bound by my own will!
I feel this odd sense of binding, as though I owe something. Yet I am not the light of day. I am only a moon. Though, perhaps to you, a fallen moon.
the fallen moon of Muad'Dib.
Is it my own sincerity, a loyalty?
Is it temptation?
Is it nothing more than the nostalgia of the music?
"It stirs up curious feelings."
Do you ever pass by here?
like a stuck gear
in an eager machine -
lump in my throat
All wasted breath. Yet, is it?
Is there any value in the remembrance of the way things could have been?
I could have had it all.
But I could not accept.
Do you wonder why?
I have never been one to want riches. Even now, that is not what I seek.
No, I seek that which I always have.
It's that binding to my conscience. Something I cannot fully destroy or forsake, though I may wander and bend. That spark deep inside that nudges and pokes. It points. It leads me back to the origins - to Creation itself.
You are an author, a creator of worlds. Do you ever feel the sense?
Each miracle that lives, each being that has the breath of life.
Each has its purpose and its lack.
Each holds the potential, waiting. Waiting.
Every soul groans, wishing to be made whole,
to be touched by the hand of God once again and completed.
I found it.
It is no dream.
Come and taste it.
Ah, but you will not come.
All I have ever done is hurt you.
Why would one trust another who has been so...
Please don't confuse my immaturity for the truth that I thought I knew.
But, I must say, I wonder this - how could you think of me, when I was so foolish?