They'll no more suffer from hunger, they'll no more suffer from thirst.

Some will acknowledge you in passing, from the corner of their eye, and still some will admire in awe; you will know a sacred and blessed covenant on this day; the others will ignore you and spite you.  There will be little sympathy here, and minimal aid, except among the venerated and true.  You will boil, relentlessly, for seven eternities and before seven suns, in pain, in anxiety, in fear, and you will be among the faithful few to rejoice if some part of you comes out unscathed.

All people will expect all things from you, but few will help you understand what this means for them.  You will walk alone, sharply.

On a pale blue moon, you will know joy, pleasure, peace, and calm, and before long you will remember to look to the stars, and the Lord will embolden you, potentiating you with the armament of the sacred covenant; in this world, you must know pain, and an endless embalming.

Saints will come from the east with gifts and good tithings, they will attend to your wounds and make a sacred offering for peace and potency; you'll accommodate them and share in holy meals and good spirits, and for a moment, you will know a loving and gracious harbor.

By year and by eternity, parts of you will be left over, scattered across the land, and these will be important and cherished remnants of the fateful path you walk along.  People will envy you, appease you, ignore you, and repent before you, and still you will know, foremost, a perpetual and lamenting pain, and a tantamount burning of the soul.  

The weight of the world will have your shoulders to buckle; your skin will weep at the pore, and your eyes will know a mysterious blindness.  They will taunt you, infantilize you, and treat you like a forest mage.

Before long, your achievements will mount.  All things will go spectacularly, your will made manifest in color and form, and your light will be seen in its full glory.  Many things will come effortlessly, as if by sinecure, and still you will feel an endless, unrelenting, and piercing burning in all depths of your being.  This is, categorically, the singular and parsimonious sacrament of will.

They'll no more suffer from hunger, they'll no more suffer from thirst.

Goodness will pour out across the seven seas, the sun will burn its brightest in five aeons, and the foxes will rejoice in splendor; patron saints will know a new spirit and a faithful tide, and still your burning will be a relentless, uncharitable, and most distinguished hell.

Soon, you will bring others to the pike to have them to burn on account of their wickedness; you will watch, unadmonished, as they carbonize in an instant, and still you will know an insurmountable and veritable burning in yourself, like being immersed from scalp to toe in a boiling and steaming vat of acid.

Your entire being will become shrouded in a mythic steel, your spirit buttressed by a gleaming citadel, and you will know a faithful security of the soul in a proclamation to eternity.  And on that day, you will remember that the Lord would have you to burn, unyieldingly, in this eternal flame and singular spirit.

You will clench your fists and demand for salvation, pleading for a refrain, an intermission, or an end, and still you will know no relief; the Lord will answer: be still and know your sign.

One will burn fearlessly, mercilessly, and uncompromisingly, for seven eternities and before seven suns, and still they will know no rest; for the faithful will always persist, for all are saved in the divine name, and the Lord will remain, steadfast, at your guard.

To Bleed in Six Colors
Sigma Satori