They were not made fully happy by their visions and experiences, although they greatly valued them. Angels came to visit, and they knew in their bellies what it felt like to rise as if in reality, and they loved their just flown in fragrances, subtle touch, and the mysteries.
They were then like the mystics of today, and their dreams didn’t just bring them something fanciful, they’d found in them true value and worthy considerations, and with that value and the ideas these dreams brought them, the mystics still brought their own questions and tears into reality.
In the sensations, they’d found a certain closeness, of course, and they’d found aside from their dreams, in reality, there was something more beautiful than what could be envisioned.
They know dreams, they know reality, and they know where these places overlap; I’ve known this, too. They wonder greatly, they reach out their hands; although the sky may darken soon and they don’t think that will make it less beautiful.
Even all the unbearable, unimaginable beauty and presence of that which they know, they’ve thought: how, when. Their poems may bring them warmth, the words magnify their own hearts, and with that unbearable beauty, the warmth of words to say it, the magnification, and the preciousness, they still are not always holding something, they still ask, and they still are very much here.