From some old writings I kept finding in my journal. Some of these often
seemed like premonition, others I'll never know.

Drifting high above the clouds,
Something sighs, yet not out loud.
Silence ever, hand now staid,
Since before the world was made.

Should you find the wand'ring ghost,
Ask it what it seeks the most.
Watch it stir, look in its mist,
Behold a weak, shaking fist.

Such small things they pass us by,
Seldom looking in our eye.
Just faint shadows more sublime,
Weakened patterns of our time.

Thinking on these saddened things,
You may find the hope it brings:
Not in living or the past,
Those coy things they never last.

Just wan hope that days might come,
When stranger shades we become.
Living within the Living,
Always bright and forgiving.

Wyle,
Cabalist Wanderer

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Lanosian, in the year 149 MA.