No bitter stench of the funeral-still for Maud’dib.
No knell nor solemn rite to free the mind
From avaricious shadows.
He is the fool saint,
The golden stranger living forever
On the edge of reason.
Let your guard fall and he is there!
His crimson peace and sovereign pallor
Strike into our universe on prophetic webs
To the verge of a quiet glance – there!
Out of bristling star-jungles:
Mysterious, lethal, an oracle with our eyes,
Catspaw of prophecy, whose voice never dies!
Shai-hulud, he awaits thee upon a strand
Where couples walk and fix, eye to eye,
The delicious ennui of love.
He strides though the long cavern of time,
Scattering the fool-self of his dream.
–the Ghola’s Hymn