The fire burns high, the wailing of the women rises...
"His shade walks free in death's dark and secret land,
Unchained now by our small virtues, sins, and vices,
Free to be the spirit he could never be here,
Its natural state and self, unframed by man's staged devices.
There, shall a tree be but a tree, a thing of beauty and shelter,
Not hiding place for a foe, or wood to form a club or lance.
There too shall his spirit be free to shape itself
Not chipped or scraped by hate or errant winds of chance."
Embers of this mortal flame are now dark and cold as voices fade to silence.
Donovan Baldwin