THE DAWNI open my eyes.
My wounds of Stigmata are bleeding.
Onlookers surround me.
Their language is barbaric.
I scream in my tounge,
“What year is it?!”
They yell in theirs,
frightened by the holy light emanating from me.
My vocal cords adjust to their linguistic frequency.
I stand.
Commanding, “take me to your leader.”
They instantaneously obey.
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