Its birth-cries shout of unjustice and it would now merge its features as it had torn its self .

Illusions would fly their flamboyant kites and its attention would be caught, but its insight trained; and wind would carve apocalypse's revelations and rewrite them on it, but it would not be scarred... for its origin would be the future only it can witness and the possibilities only it can predict. And flowing through apocalypse's sculpting, it would refill its own determination by corroding the doubt.

Until when it would reach the temple where such meeting was foretold. And its conscience would then spread, and the soil it would all soak. It would tilt its eyes, now dying and their destiny would bow.

It would then have bonded, and undone, all that it was ever told to; and it will wonder if it matters, yet you all in time will know.