Mystic Shadows

On a lonely hilltop, is laid a white stone.

Untouched. Yet touched by a hundred souls.

Faceless. In the light of unrecognisable faces, blending.

Flowers grow from underneath the stone.

The only sign of worship and its' triumph.

Among howling voices of storming winds,

The single stone stands, white and bleak.

Erect. Naked. Stripped of all Purpose except

To Act. To Protect.

A tribal god, hand-tied by cloth.

Braving the sun, the cold, the rain.

In silent blessing, and humle acknowledgement

Of a community's trail and its' survival.