From Stephane L. Pressault

When God created the universe and the Angels sang your praises, in harmony, A symphony honouring your light and your nobility, recognizing that you are the Master Angels performing a Music, so perfect and metered until a final trumpet is blown You were, are, and always will be our Prophet and Saviour You came to illuminate the darkened faces of sinners, of weak men and women who haughtily tread the earth Who have forgotten where they come from, have forgotten who they are, and have forgotten where they’re going. You came to teach men to be men, to efface themselves in your light Like the Moon when the Sun has risen Son of Man, bani Adam, whose path depends upon a Shepherd Outliers without a Prophet My dear Prophet, I am ill But I do not know it. Had I known the gravitas of my mishaps, I would be waiting trembling Your friends are lovelorn for they miss you Their illness is a burning heart that only you can cure. But I pay no heed to my illness. My body seeks to be an outlier without a shepherd, and does not know that this is a sickness I have a heart, that has rusted over time It was once a mirror that reflected God. But within it, there is a fire. I am uncertain whether it burns from love or from Hell. But it drives me to write these words, and this letter. A step forward, and God promises His swiftness. Your presence is God’s presence, there is no difference. Rebuke me. Tell me I’m wrong. Because you only do that to those you love. May I join the chore that plays so beautifully? Will you remember me, when I need you the most? Will you speak to our Lord, and ask that you guide us? Will you petition our God, and allow us your company?

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