Such there is beauty in an ever crueler world, yet, for all the bestowed gems in the roughest of mountain peaks, there are overwhelmingly more poachers with none more intent than to instill cracks unto such enchanting sights as they sit. For those who weave stars along blank nebulae, there perch just as many who rip out seams of such painted tapestries of utmost intricacy. Yet, as though the world was as new as the bearing sun, their hands do not stray.
For all this world has to offer in evils and tricks of a mind, there lives just one with a heart as a radiant sun. In the most relentlessly brutal of sanded plains, may live there a kind wife who sings songs of the rain.
As the birds do sing with the winding winds, as the man brushes his flame, there sits unawakened wrong. Nay, not in pain or twisted fate will this ominously living pulsar will not beset the sun in all its grandeur, should this world stay true to the skin of life.
Bring hope.
