The greatest of all Books sits dusty on a shelf while winged miracles weep
as if one of their own had fallen
Their tears, now breaking ever forcefully through the floor of the sky,
race down toward the soil
Falling heavy on the roofs and trees, not in a pitter-patter sort, but in a
thunderous crashing like the sky kingdom had been flipped topsy-turvy
No ceasing to their melancholy cries that echo throughout all planes on
heaven and hell and between
Laughter and cheer has yet to be heard and sunshine has yet to be seen in
their realm
All this suffering above for a single Book collecting dust on a shelf
Therein lies the power not frailty of His Kingdom