Edgar Cayce
At midnight he appeared—
his face brighter than the sun.
I whispered, “Sleeping Prophet,
you are here.”
He did not speak,
only smiled,
and from his forehead
a radiant light poured forth.
The room grew darker,
the silence deeper.
“You gave more than fourteen thousand readings,
and many came true in your lifetime.
The world has not forgotten you,
Nostradamus of our age.”
Through the green language of the soul
he asked me what I longed to know.
I said, “Tell me of Gaza—
what shall come?”
He answered not in words,
but in currents of fire:
“Everything unfolds with reason.
War unveils what was hidden.
It began on the seventh day of October—
seven, the number of completion,
perfection, divine fulfillment.
And 2023 itself was a seventh year.”
He paused,
and the silence trembled like thunder.
“A new Gaza shall rise.
The world will turn against Israel,
even her closest allies.
For blood is holy—
and when it soaks the earth,
it cries louder than swords.
The war was born in the tenth month.
One and zero—return to one.
From hero to zero shall Israel fall,
and the world will never
be the same again.”
The light faded,
and he was gone.
Confusion wrapped me like smoke.
I looked at the clock—
00:00—
the hour when heaven
and earth
stand still.
Yet a whisper lingered in the dark:
“From ashes, truth is born.
What is broken shall be remade.
And beyond sorrow’s shadow,
a dawn more radiant
than the sun will rise.”
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