| The Gods are pleased. The debt is paid. On seven plinths, the pages turn. An old Soul, its aura burnished gold, prepares to meet its maker. Allah, Jehovah - the Christian God, they are all one to the hall. About three Books, a silver radiance gleams; around another, a crimson aureole shines. A halo of soft emerald surrounds one Soul, its verdance shot through with streaks of blue. And the youngest of the Seven floats in a nimbus of deepest sapphire, the rarest hue. Such Souls are made for Love. In the Hall of Akashic Records, a host of Souls moves through the mists of history. Do those Souls sleep - is life a dream? The Hall keeps silence. For the fortunate few, happiness... is just a life away. The End |
