Lo, the Madman arrives! The Prophet of Blasphemy, he delivers the words of our god, tainting his glory. I, a Scribe of the Mass, have written his deranged words and cursed him. My young self called him foolish, my friends had burned his house and killed his wife; we stoned him and threw his body to the primordial oceans that gave us nourishment—but fire and water descended from the heavens. We prayed to Il-Rahme above the vaults for protection and mercy—but he shunned us—for we slaughtered his final prophet. We realized our transgressions through the body of the Prophet, who saw us from the Heavens above, wearing a white and black attire and lamenting with the other Heralds. As the Creator of this World, he, the Merciful One, spares us with Death, who follows the words of its Master, and besieges the Wicked.

My Mother, who was a righteous and devoted woman, was inflicted with a damned ailment by a demon who she sealed away in our incantation jar. Still bound with the glyphs and symbols of Il-Rahme who protected our household, the fiend cursed her with a self-destroying hex that had slowly siphoned her life and flesh. My Sister, a devoted virgin priestess, prayed to the Merciful One, to spare the woman from death. However, in a dream, she had heard the voice of God, who ridiculed and scorned for ignorance, shunning his Prophet. Therefore, she wept and repented; she became a Daughter of the Madman, and we stoned her for her desecration.

I wept the day my Sister, my brethren and strong tower I could be protected from, has perished from the wrathful, merciless men. Albeit disagreeing with her, I prayed and found her body, still beautiful yet blemished with scars, and buried her in her rightful place. To no one I spoke with; to no one I laughed with. My Mother still stayed on her deathbed, walking between the thin lines of Life and Death, for even the Merciful One questioned how to love and care for the World.

On the third day before Destruction, descended a herald of the Merciful One. Ah, my ignorant self shunned its words, and cursed before its departure, ascending to the dwelling place of the celestial hosts. I believe it to be the works of the Wicked, but the line of good and evil has vanished.

Therefore, while I wait until the last moments I am destroyed, forgotten, and return as dust that falls into the Primordial Waters, I wait until this circle, the cycle of ignorance and regret, finally will break. I have seen the visions of the past; the days before Il-Rahme made me and others. Like the people of the present, the men and creatures of the past were ignorant, foolish, and blind—slaughtering its Prophet and deeming them as the Madman—stoning and drowning the martyr like a candle whose flames have died—all used up.

After the Merciful One spares us with Death, and we repent post mortem, I pray that the generation of new man will learn the ways of righteousness, and break the Circle of Ignorance.