Lakai Saadiq III
Unto listeners of the winds,
Drivers of wave-octaves,
concocted of mood swings
And carriers of purpose across gigantic mountains.
We ought to pay homage.
Our bones, thrown to planes.
Planes clothed by legacies of honoured heroes
We now call proclaim as saints.
For they have claimed that,
Heavens’ gates are opened with pianoforte keys.
The crouching screech,
Shivering as snare drums and rumbling as a contrabass.
Before the shimmering angelic voices,
Brass tames and the trumpet plays.
Unto the conductors of purpose,
Ye who resides within this orbit,
And you servants of music in a quest,
The is quest to resume our calling,
Your calling, My calling.
