Pressed for silence,
He believes there is something sacred in the boundaries of
his dance.
With eternal gratitude,
And without a yamaka,
He presses onward into the night.
As if stone could be made dust,
The light that surrounds him betrays nothing lacking in the
sacred
And the watchful eyes trust in his glory.
He is the last pillar of a dying truth
And he moves like a storm unwilling to move eastward,
That chosen soul held up to the undying light.
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