Unabridged fields of green, the work of he who has counted his seed. Against the rail of a piling line a cascade of sand greets he who had first walked the shore. From earth begat in some semblance of man. Among him the triumph of the grey cliffs of Galilee once spoken in such clarity no longer a remanent. Deep sea of ivory laced in golden shadow, a truth unforgotten and passed on by the vigilance of rampart sun. Upon the signal of his arrival, an unbridled crowd, the peasant who came for the sake of her daughter. The fore thrust widows and fathers. In a breath he called to the man who had left his servant to tend the field he called his own. Scattered are those who have caused this land to quench. Like the seed they have sown they have rejected living water. Abandoned on a hill by the unassuming, he who had counted his tithe.