They build their love through absence.
They kneel before closed doors.
Your memory smoulders in their veins.

They navigate by stars gone cold,
sing hymns in empty halls,
and cast their hearts into the wind.

Their candles crown abandoned altars.
While You wander strange and distant heavens,
they watch wax melt and pray.

You may never know them,
or forget that once You did,
but Your legacy lives upon their lips.

They keep the temples standing,
brush dust from holy works.
Your word, Your will, lingers through their faith.

You look beyond the turning spheres,
searching for marvels yet unseen.
Meanwhile, the greatest miracle kneels unnoticed.

They ask so little: a simple sign, perhaps,
a whispered echo of Your voice.
Their wildest hope is Your steady gaze.

Look down, I pray.
Witness those who look up,
and see what You have overlooked:

Mortal souls, rare and finite,
surrendering to You their numbered years,
and hoping only to be seen.


Penned by my hand on the 25th of Scarlatan, in the year 1013 AF.