Upon the shoreless sea,
where the ocean knows no boundaries,
a throne of shadow has descended.
A Black Owl.
Immense.
Unmoving.
Its torso rises from the abyss,
standing upon the eternal waves.
Its eyes pierce through time,
older than the stars,
heavier than the waters.
It does not fly, it does not act:
it is the silence before the thunder,
the waiting before the sword.
The winds are restrained.
Heaven holds its breath.
Mercy restrains the lightning.
For the Servant must yet cry out,
warn the nations,
mark the foreheads,
reveal the hands.
Seals and marks already tremble in the air,
like dew soon to fall.
Every forehead must choose its light,
every heart must show its allegiance.
But time is short.
The silence will not last.
When the decision is fulfilled,
the Owl shall rise.
Its wings shall cover the nations,
the very horizon shall be darkened.
The cups shall be poured out,
and Matrix shall be found as Sodom,
desolate, burned,
amid fire and darkness.
Now it is silent.
Now it watches.
And its unmoving gaze
weighs upon the world heavier than the waters,
until the final word is cried aloud.