Barren woods,
the realms of lofty dreams all
measured next to nothing
when compared to the light
of the future; the light that
drifts from home to home,
carried by a star, carried by
a torch, carried by the glimmer
of a man’s eye; he keeps this light
in his pocket, in his purse, in
the shelves of his wallet, waiting
for a sign, waiting for the star
that falls from heaven, all the while
his hand is burning.

While the slave, who sits among
piles of garbage and ruminates on
the shadows as stones of immaculate
grace, the star burns on his forehead,
the tempest blue, bright red, blazing
into a night sky filled with the horrors
of the day, trampled screams, fearful
hesitations, the drawing of the knife
and the wasting of the earth – he burns
through the night, and his voice is like
a field grown with honey and mint,
reaching into the folds of the soul and
measuring the wealth of a man not by
his pleasantries, but by his rule.

[Romans 1:1]