I. Spirits of the fathers, spirits of the magnitude who claimed saints but yet forever searched heavens, spirits who spoke through fires and stones, where is thy existence beyond which I heard from afar?
ii. I heard the walk on a tail, the thousand words it has, a reminder to the Pentecost which that multiloquent papyrus wrote, the mental illness it evoked and the confusion that leaves us in doubt.
iii. The spirits that wakes at night and slumbers at day, what really it is you can’t decipher – takes a walk and plays with nature; I feel gripped by fear.
iv. The domestic products of earth risk their use of not being favored, give out all they had to the widow at the synagogue which I still felt pity for.
v. Thy voices I acknowledge, the sounds of gongs rises higher than the words. Cowries move in all directions, gravity pitied it but meanings were always derived.
vi. Consecrated spirits which mingled earth, we know you still cause our unfortunateness through your breath of air; a pitiful me doomed here to acknowledge.