i murmur my devotion to the Lady as I walk. And I look up, to see if yet the black folds of her garment fill the sky above me.

And they do. she does not look back, however, her face, white as alabaster, hair raven black, eyes blazing. she looks only forward, to the west.

but west is to the ocean and beyond, but first the Baghdad of the West.

she has not moved, although the billowing suggests flying at a great speed. still she is above me, huge, but not filling the entire horizon. but more perhaps than I can bear; no, i can bear it, but it is greater than all my plans together.

She tells me under her breathe, "yes! i hear your prayer. fret not! I am doing what I must do. What you must do will be revealed."

And so I trudge doggedly, climbing so slowly the staircase behind the mountain. no one sees my hands, callused, tired, or hears my breath short and gasping. my habit torn, mud and filth and my own excretions staining.

there is no time for stopping. although sometimes, i rest, my hands gripping the cold, sharp, black stone. my feet unsteady but sure for now. and after my wearying dreams of torment, i begin again up. to what destiny i know not.

or perhaps i do. but i dare not dream of ecstasy or rest.