I feel the Pope warm, yet dead in moist coolness, after not having air.
The lying prophet arises in the mysts of Vatican pyre.
I see a cauldron of smoke, dust and flame.....black in the Middle East.
The son of perdition comes with peace, but peace is the tool of annexation.
There is glittering crystal and lights, toasted to the success in Europe. Smiles, favor, weariness for what lies ahead.
America is in a stupor, stiff with age, trying to arise, but plagued with her internal malady.
There will be built a temple in Jerusalem. It will be the thing to do.
The Arab Spring has come, and bring a harvest after war, of thrusting at Achilles heal.
The Europeans will come to Africa. They will shred Libya and crush Egypt, before establishing their standard beside Jerusalem on the side of the Great Sea.
They offer in the temple to the illuminated one, and then the end begins for all.
The world gathers in dust plumes for the march. The earth rumbles with the footsteps and the horizon is odd in brown purple color.
They battle there in the plains north of the city. Is heavy like the cutting of a slab of cheese, weary and no frantic motion as they die.
The son of perdition perishes without human hand. he lies with filtered light, serene in a grey cool.
The sons of the exile are a remnant in the garden God planted them. It is a grave and the shroud of darkness covers the lands.
The bear comes forth like lumbering lightning, jagged on edge. It does not return to it's cave. The dragon is a winged covered dust on foot. It breathes fire no more.
I saw her there in the morning, old and new, promises now heard before not spoken. Lithe and aged, and yet the duty was to tell them all and duty was all it was, as who does want the unwanted.
It is cold in the flame. The embers can not heat enough.
agtG 293Y
