I ask you. I call out to you. I play the Barimbau in hopes that you'll hear and follow its sweet sound. It has been seven years and you have not returned. I am weak and weary from waiting. Another has appeared. She is twenty-one feet shorter than you are. Her ways are that of a feline - she purs and she prowls. She rantantanis around me every third hour. She haunts me to follow her whims. Come follow me, old one, she says. I clench my eyelids in order to shut off her incessant beckoning. Her purring has begun to drown the beauty of your illustrious cords. High near the clouds are you, but nearer the earth is she. She is closing onto me and getting closer. I can stop her, but the glint of her feline eyes has its claws clinched on my temples. She has clawed into the ancient part of my eyes that I no longer use anymore. The use which had no satiation. I call to you to help me. But you bear no answer. You bear no return. I may give into the felid one's beckoning. She may clench me. And drag me to the valley. How then? How then shall we ever meet again? No ways do I see in my eyes. My eyes are blinded by their outflowing mercury. No way to see you. I long for you to return to me before her ways are final. I can no longer keep my eyes closed. I must open them. Will you be there when that happens? Or do you no longer care to wait? I call out to you. But you do not answer. You have left with no hope of return. I am left here to pray all alone on His mountain. If you're no longer there, then I will no longer wait for you. Just tell me not to wait. Tell me not to wait for an answer. -Suffer me to read with understanding. --Signed, Isaac
