No bitter stench of funeral-still for Muad' 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 gaurd fall and he is there!
His crimson peace and sovereign pallor
Strike into our Universal prophetic webs
To the verge of a quiet glance-there!
Out of bristling star-jungles.
Mysterious, lethal, an oracle without eyes,
Catspaw of prophecy, whose voice never dies!
Shai-hulud, he awaits there upon the strand
Where couples walk and fix, eye to eye,
The delicious ennui of love
He strides through the long cavern of time,
Scattering the fool-self of his dream.
-The Ghola's Hymn
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