Here, I watch the ocean return to the sky and I am created by the ways I divide the wind. Though we named it, the mist does not stay the same, but is movement between ocean and air, and I, adrift on the titles of clouds would know it as it is to be known.
Hold my hands as god's hands, for even god trembles, and servants grow weary without brief respite; do I ask of myself more than what god desires? For my dreams are too real to keep to the night
or the comfort of shadows -- yet how do I speak when the voice has grown weary, and my footsteps are slow. Do I seek a reprieve? I am burdened by silence; yet to burn in your purpose is all I desire.
I am fearful of sleep, for years are not time to fulfill what's been promised, nor learn what you know -- yet I follow your steps like a map of this valley, and a path through these acres of wilderness, grown.