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Final Feast Of The Epiphany
It was the final feast of the epiphany. Earth's terminal birth rite. The loss of the messiahs. There would be no more celebrating. Only a stillness was felt as the last gift was laid down. Mankind knew no more ambition or dreaming.
It was then that she reflected, the Pashtun Virgin, she who had been fated to bring forth the Last Child of Hope. There could be no hope in this finality. There could be no beauty without the infinite. She knew all this. Despite her lowly upbringing this insight was her due and on it her true blessing rested. She drew the newborn back into herself. She withdrew the most recent other saviours into herself as well. Her village then enfolded within her. She encompassed the continent and spread out over the Oceans. All of Humanity spiraled towards her womb as she dissipated amongst the stars. I resisted; I alone. Not by choice or through any effort. Rather I am merely designated the last chronicler. The exodus poet for no one.
