#twothousandseasons

The desert was made the desert, turned barren by a people whose spirit itself is the seed of death. Each single one of them is a carrier of destruction. The spirit of their coming together, the purpose of their existence is the spread of death over the earth, An insatiable urge drives them. Whenever their is life, even if it only be a possibility, the harbingers of death must go--to destroy it. See the footsteps they have left all over the world. Wherever they have been they have destroyed along their road, taking, taking, taking. They have wiped the surface barren with their greed. They have dug deep to take what the earth needed for itself to stay fertile earth. They have taken everything within their reach, things that made the earth good, and they have put nothing back but hard, dead things in place of life destroyed. Even their putting back has nothing of a sense of reciprocity. Their semblance of giving is parcel of their greed. It is their habit to put dead, useless things in the hollowed earth to help them take more coveted things.

Beware the destroyers. It is their habit to cut off fingers from the hand itself uprooted from the parent body, calling each fallen piece a creature in itself, different from ears, eyes, noses, feet, entrails, [and] other individuals of their making.

Remember this: against all that destruction some yet remained among us unforgetful of origins, dreaming secret dreams, seeing visions, hearing secret voices of our purpose. Further: those yet to appear, to see, hear, to utter and to make--little do we know what changes they will come among. Idle, then, for us to presume despair on their behalf: foolish when we have no knowledge how much closer to the way their birth will come, how much closer than our closest hopes.

A people losing sight of origins are dead. A people deaf to purposes are lost. Under the fertile rain, in scorching sunshine, there is no difference: their bodies are mere corpses awaiting final burial.