The wayfarer who retraces the path of the tradition, walks over a sword, perhaps infinite.
A curved sword that emerges from multitudes, melting into one.
The wayfarer walks in a constant (dis) equilibrium, oscillating between hell and paradise; between happiness and sadness; punishment or reward: fictions.
There are only two real punishments: inaction when facing an unveiled truth, and the forgetfulness. The executioner has your own name.
The wayfarer of the tradition walks in search of the only real state: the presence (Hadrat) over the impeccable edge.