Thy, brethren, doth produce this account. Twice a fortnight only to pass and be it, I am an outsider. So pedantic are they, feting about in their citing. I, but a widow amidst these lands. But a meager soul, a menial use for existence. Should it be that the prosperous do thicken? Their stoles and baggage reaps adhere the loose unwinding trail. And the dead trees of the west fade with a passing glance? Panic grieves the washes in the Nile. Water itself as turned to dust on the brim of the closing shores.
Alas, might it not be so? Heaved upon the brightest hope, a glistening to be shan't.  But mustn't it! I turn to myself for good riddance and it is all I have to give. When I stepped back to examine the followings of my brothers and sisters, I could respect, but not feel.