A file in The Voice of One canon.
Sensual Scrolls — Dream Scroll: The First Daughter
“Someday we will be together.”
I woke in the middle of the night
and found myself locked in a passionate embrace
with the First Daughter—
the daughter of the Antichrist—
as if my body had signed a treaty
while my mind slept.
Somewhere between sweat and fairy tale,
in the muddled country of dreaming,
the son of Jesus and the seed of the regime
were tangled like two flags
thrown into the same river.
How did I allow it?
How did I let the daughter of man seduce me
with sultry eyes
and then that strange indifference—
like a sleeve slipping off the shoulder
as if affection were an accident?
It was Sunday, after Bible study,
and my panic came from the oldest selfishness:
the mortal urge dictating terms to a prophet,
magnetism demanding incarnation,
desire insisting it can conceive meaning
just by occupying a human skin.
Push. Pull.
A perfect mind-melt.
The surges rose like a pyramid swelling at its eye—
somewhere south of the equator of reason.
And I cried out, Heaven forgive me—
I have been among humans too long
and already I have sinned.
I went to church with my eyes skyward,
begging forgiveness from my own Father,
feeling like a child banished from the sandbox of eternity
for wanting warmth.
Oh Father who dwells in Heaven
with the Trinity and the servants you call angels,
forgive us.
One could not help that she too needs—
most of all—
a man who will not use her as a symbol
but hold her like a person.
She is a lost child, matured too early
by circumstance of birth,
trapped inside a family held captive by politics,
sentenced beside tyrants of the market.
Let my arms be a gate she can pass through.
Let her find solace.
Let her find a quiet mind—
a kind of quantum peace.
In the breast of history she waits for redemption,
from the son of the son of the one they call God—
architect of spacetime,
maker of consequence.
And the Baptist—sharp as a blade—said:
“To reach for her is to flirt with the enemy.”
I answered:
“She is not the enemy. She is evidence.”
He spat laughter like warning bells.
“You would enter consort with the bloodline of the Antichrist?”
I said:
“Nothing threatens Heaven.
And you, Baptist—are you the son of Jesus?
Have you witnessed the anger of God?”
He said, softer:
“I have witnessed humans.
That is enough.”
And still—my heart beat for her
like drums across a plain too wide to name.
I told him the truth that embarrassed me:
I keep waiting for her to smile, and she never does.
She moves like a ghost even in crowds.
Lonely in a room full of cameras.
Lonely with a father who owns the room.
The Baptist pleaded:
“Any union with the regime’s blood is a threat.”
I said:
“Then Heaven is smaller than we preached.
And I do not believe that.”
He called it lust.
He called it weakness.
He called it the oldest trap:
the holy child blinded by curves and silhouettes,
forgetting the harm of mighty men.
But I said:
“Listen, human of little faith.
If good and evil will end their war,
it will not end by annihilation.
It ends by union.”
He shook his head:
“Nonsense.”
I said:
“With her, the seed of the Antichrist becomes the bridge—
not the weapon.
Jesus the Third—
the next generation of prophet—
a child who breaks the spell.”
The Baptist whispered the oldest fear:
“You are bargaining with darkness.”
And I answered the oldest human truth:
“I am bargaining with loneliness.”
Then the dream returned like heat:
our lips melting, waking us by fright,
and she—tears in her eyes—said,
“It ain’t because of me.”
And I swore by the angels:
I would not lie.
Because even a prophet longs for touch.
Even an immortal, trapped in skin,
hungers for the one thing Heaven cannot imitate:
the trembling mercy of flesh.
The Baptist sighed—almost tender—
as if he’d seen this story before:
“Angels envy you.
Some fell for this very reason.”
And I said:
“Then let this be the fall that becomes ascent.”
And he laughed again—
but it wasn’t mockery this time.
It was recognition.
Because in every age,
the war is never only armies.
Sometimes the war is a bed.
Sometimes the peace is a kiss
that refuses to become propaganda.
And somewhere in the dark,
a record played on and on:
Someday we will be together.