How the faithful forget themselves, what right do they have to possess the blindfold of ignorance in this life? Bowing to his holy books, he surrender his being to the knowledge within the calligraphy, those same eyes finding truth among scratches upon a page, yet not seeing the same within the humanity that surrounds him?

Where the scholar looked ages in religious tomes for it, Where the pilgrim walked many miles  and my holy sites in search of it, it was he who was simple who had found it. He had found his God, the thing he ought to worship, not in books or places no, for he always had it, he merely listened to his conscience that was all.