Sitting at the sands of time, poring at the sole custodian of history, true to God and unto itself acceding the blood of men and beasts, men of war and men of peace all brought to dust by their feats.
Ever present, always here always watching the deeds of men, ever faithful, ever clear the dust is all and all there is.
Is it such a task to think that man and his house are one and the same from dust they both came and to dust they will wane. This is the mystery of the dust everything is one and the same, anima and inanima, living and dead we are the same, dust is our claim and dust again.
If this is the supreme edict why treat a man as dirt when dirt itself is what you are indeed why chase after something that's in your soul instilled.
Next time you find a pan treat it as you would a man you're not so different only you have a mind and a soul and a heart, the more why you should be kind.
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