They had taken off their clothes and their naked souls dripped upon the snow covering the mountainside. Each drop then filled with light forming an infant star. Down the mountain, miles below, hundreds of small flowers blossomed and we delighted in the fragrant colors. Mankind sparkled, and mountains swayed in remembrance. Hundreds of years away an eagle lifts off and we delight in its gloriousness of flight under aged stars, and those same flowers bloom and we find delight in their nakedness. Never let it be said that these men did not triumph, for they've lit the sky and emboldened the world... Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)