Through slender back-beat
they move to oblivion.
Sirens call, crashing

to rocks below, and the bellows fan flames.
Embers breathed upon at last,
and these from a foreign flame were lit.
Carry light, and carry lightly for the paths remain broken.
Brambles reach to snag,
and crowns to crosses turn in the twilight.

It is here, the blurry in between.
The waiting. . . pregnant pause of Holy wisdom.
Born in light, lived in mud,
and yet to be celestial or something other.