Where have you gone? Here time stands still,
Pushed slowly to its knees by the gravity of your memory.
And this, your song, the holes once filled,
Stand open to the sky, seeming, somehow, far more deep.
The smoke from fires remembered, guiding weary pathmen home
Whisper from graves of sodden ashes that they, too, felt your strength.
This cross that lies, unsplintered, on your footprints near this stone,
Unmoved, for lack of guidance, untried by the age-wrought skeptic: our once so childlike faith.
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