The Concealer stood before the
aftermath of his age-long sleep,
one of anxious, theophanic
dread—that taught him
something mystical about the
charted course of God’s ape-men,
now shamans, masons and
wizards like himself, yet fragile,
and not entirely conscious of their
smallness, their teetering on
the edge of indiscriminate destruction.
Jaalam, incensed with righteous urgency
and terror—uncoloured layman’s visions
of his excruciating end, goad and
motivation in attending to the
onerous task of renumbering,
reassuming, rededicating the ways of man
eclipsed a span several sun’s length’s
of astral emptiness to stand before the
the embankment separating
man from endless abandonment.
Its indescribable mass was testament
to the creator’s love of man,
and umbrage at the enemy’s attempt to
sway the tide—deception.
But Jaalam, seizing, screamed and shook—
not now in wakeful impatience—
in rage, that took hold and brought an
impervious angel-warrior to kneel
in mesmeric agony.
What looked like mortar was
the blood of Christ cohering
stone to stone for one hundred
thousand miles of towering white
wall—considered neat, a yet inestimable
ocean of the Prince’s precious ichor.
What had happened—what was still to happen
in the millennia hence was unthinkable;
entirely beyond a creature of impeccable
perception—the second person of the Trinity
was dam and defender of a race of profane,
unascended, upright-walking apes.