Hark! Hark to the wind! Tis the night, they say, when all souls come back from the far away - The dead, forgotten this many a day!
Common people pray for rain, healthy children and a summer that never ends. It is no matter to them if the high lords play their game of thrones, so long as they are left in peace.
O soul, you worry too much. You have seen your own strength. You have seen your own beauty. You have seen your golden wings. Of anything less, why do you worry? You are in truth the soul, of the soul, of the soul.
The mind is the instrument, the flywheel, and the thickest comrade of man. Through it, one can ruin oneself or save oneself. Regulated and controlled, channeled properly it can liberate; wayward and let loose, it can entangle and bind fast.
The time has come to turn your heart into a temple of fire. Your essence is gold hidden in dust. To reveal its splendour you need to burn in the fire of love.
