The many; the few. Even the masters give no guidance.
So pearls by millions are cast into mud and filth.
Millions more into forests primeval, mountains barren,
Moors desolate.
Hearts brittle.
Go ahead. Take one. Seize it. And show it to no one.
For their eyes are as mud. They are of filth and thus see only filth.
Let them not despise you. Polish your precious gift. Hide it within your cloaks.
And if you meet an open heart, allude to the beauty.
And if they consent to share blood with you, perhaps give them a glimpse---
But let them hold it not; it is for you alone.
Let not the shaman know of it. For he will covet it and waylay you.
And if he does, though you care not for your life, care for it. For he will grind it up into powder
for his sinister potions.
Keep it whole, pure. And as you die, take it from the folds of your garments, and swallow it.
It shall be your pass, token of the pass and ticket to the court of the gods.
and you shall weep no more.
