High upon her precipice, the soul is nameless, for she has no form—she will be whatever she must be.
Peering below, beneath the clouds, she perceives a faint shimmering of her light in the deep, wet earth. There she finds form, and she calls it a name, and she is called when that name is called, for she says, “This is me.”
But it is not her. It is only a faint glimmering of her light within the frame of a distant world.