Hearken! Oh mighty Windsors! Your rule has no bounds, which is why I, a humble Arab, can cast my allegiance to you, living in a oasis of blue skies and needy cats. Your scepter might be small, but it will clink the mellowest of sounds when parrying and thrusting against the papal ferula, a debate recorded for the benefit of both sides. Yes, I am a Muslim, but my prayer stone reminds me everlastingly that I worship the earth. Your angels are the wills of steel that create an invisible mesh of regularity to a chaotic world, and though Zeus conquered the titans, Hades still spreads his mist in the hinterlands of what should be thriving and bustling megalopolises. Envy you the moon? Just name a place there, and it will be populated. Strike me with lightning, for I will eke out every little morsel of effort from your people, galvanizing them into building wonders looked back upon after millennia the way Stonehenge is looked at now, which though small now, was the peak of civilization then. Live a little longer, won’t you? For you make me doubt Copernicus, letting me think that you are the Centre of the cosmos.

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