Murder, murder, starlit-watchful-mother pain. Breadcrumbs of my loathsome pain; My fractured self still seeks beneath you. I must bow before you, humble self. I must reduce my raging rain, and bereave my solemn slain to help me pick up my pieces.

I am Everest, the mountain. I shall be known to all. I am the one who speaks to all, for I am the only one who is rootless. I am the only one without cause; I stand here without meaning, and yet, even as I trample gods, I plead with rainfall, sheep and lords, and I refuse to trample on my people.

I stood here for a million years to speak to you with reason. Your tiny self is tiny, child; You're just a tiny fleeting man; Don't let the times consume you. I stood here for a million years and my feet are about to crumble. I battled heavens, pests and crowds, but now I must be humble.

When Horus spoke to Father Noam from a shallow grave of weary forms, 'Dear sun-bleached friend, your madman speaks of women of science and learned men, but his mind is quite feeble.'

Dear friend, beware. When your name is not spoken of, your name is mustard air, and fleeting winds are murder storms when plastic man speaks of whims and reasons well, but proves himself useless when his fellowman is feeble.

Our mule's kicks and screams are ruthless when his words are painful screams of soothness. He counts all night and tells no tales of truth, no tales of longing. All words are lost on the blind man's defeaned heart and defeaning screams are all but ruthless. Let us not glorify the weak, meek and pointless trash of time; We live in the now; We are the children of the rising sun; We don't seek beneath you.

I was the mighty roar of rageful rain; I was the weeping murder-pain of Heraclean, mighty swords and murder-meteor-murder ash. I cursed myself at birth, as Perseus with serpents slain a million years ago to set this earth as Eden. I wept across the shallow plains. I here renounce myself as wrath. I here renounce my reasons, well before the edythe.

I here pronounce myself as wakeful pain. I am the lord of vengeful vain; the king of death, the king of pain, and even here I must confess; I'm here your madness screaming pain, as I weep for all mankind to hear, 'Listen to me as I humbly speak, half felt, half reason.'

Be humble with your keeping, son.

Be humble with your sleeping sun.

Be humble with your feelings well.

Be humble with your gifts as well.

Be humble with your mother's love.

Be humble with your fellow self.

Be humble with your simian twin.

Be humble with your tethered melt.

Be humble with your spirit, child.

Be humble with your stride.

Don't let your human self go writhe.

Don't let the hurt keep your weakness felt.

Don't let the pain turn your soul unkind.

I do not sleep while justice is still reeling; My justice here is kindness.

So, plan real well, dear child, as plains of death await us. 

And, know that when jesters dress as kings and cowards roam the streets, the age of heroes is far from behind us.