In the frost-kissed cradle of a cavern old,
where stone weeps silence and the wind grows bold,
a titan sits, his sinews carved from night,
each muscle a mountain wrapped in winter’s bite.
Snow clings to him like prayers on a rogue,
white psalms upon the altar of his rogue,
and in his hands, the Book—its pages thin
as mercy, thick as thunder held within.
His beard, a frozen river, cascades slow,
a silver torrent where the north winds blow;
his eyes, twin furnaces behind the ice,
burn holes through centuries of sacrifice.
The scripture trembles in his iron grip,
each verse a blade against his hardened lip—
he reads as if the Word itself might break
beneath the fury that his soul would slake.
See how the snowflakes crown his shoulders wide,
small ghosts of heaven on a beast of pride;
they melt against the fever of his skin,
repentant tears for worlds he might begin.
The letters blur—perhaps from frost, perhaps
from rage too vast for any alphabet—
yet still he pores, as though the ink could teach
a heart of granite how to turn to speech.
Out on the plain where sunset bleeds to gold,
the same colossus kneels in stories told
by dying light; the mountains bow their heads,
ashamed to witness what his reading sheds.
His fingers, gnarled as roots of ancient trees,
caress the margin where the Prophet sees—
and every syllable he breathes becomes
a hammer striking anvils in his drums.
Then comes the third, the final icon framed
in white oblivion, where no sun has named
the hour; here madness and devotion mate,
here holiness and havoc share a plate.
His mouth is open—roar or hallelujah?—
the teeth like tombstones in a storm of awe.
The Holy Scripture flares beneath his gaze,
a fragile ark amid apocalyptic blaze.
Three visions of one man, one war, one flame:
the scholar and the savage both the same.
He reads to tame the beast that will not yield,
he reads to free the god he keeps concealed.
Snow is his witness, cold his only cloak,
and every page he turns is fire and smoke.
Thus sits the warrior in his frozen cell,
devouring heaven, wrestling with his hell—
a poem of muscle, frost, and sacred word,
the fiercest prayer the world has ever heard.
where stone weeps silence and the wind grows bold,
a titan sits, his sinews carved from night,
each muscle a mountain wrapped in winter’s bite.
Snow clings to him like prayers on a rogue,
white psalms upon the altar of his rogue,
and in his hands, the Book—its pages thin
as mercy, thick as thunder held within.
His beard, a frozen river, cascades slow,
a silver torrent where the north winds blow;
his eyes, twin furnaces behind the ice,
burn holes through centuries of sacrifice.
The scripture trembles in his iron grip,
each verse a blade against his hardened lip—
he reads as if the Word itself might break
beneath the fury that his soul would slake.
See how the snowflakes crown his shoulders wide,
small ghosts of heaven on a beast of pride;
they melt against the fever of his skin,
repentant tears for worlds he might begin.
The letters blur—perhaps from frost, perhaps
from rage too vast for any alphabet—
yet still he pores, as though the ink could teach
a heart of granite how to turn to speech.
Out on the plain where sunset bleeds to gold,
the same colossus kneels in stories told
by dying light; the mountains bow their heads,
ashamed to witness what his reading sheds.
His fingers, gnarled as roots of ancient trees,
caress the margin where the Prophet sees—
and every syllable he breathes becomes
a hammer striking anvils in his drums.
Then comes the third, the final icon framed
in white oblivion, where no sun has named
the hour; here madness and devotion mate,
here holiness and havoc share a plate.
His mouth is open—roar or hallelujah?—
the teeth like tombstones in a storm of awe.
The Holy Scripture flares beneath his gaze,
a fragile ark amid apocalyptic blaze.
Three visions of one man, one war, one flame:
the scholar and the savage both the same.
He reads to tame the beast that will not yield,
he reads to free the god he keeps concealed.
Snow is his witness, cold his only cloak,
and every page he turns is fire and smoke.
Thus sits the warrior in his frozen cell,
devouring heaven, wrestling with his hell—
a poem of muscle, frost, and sacred word,
the fiercest prayer the world has ever heard.
The Sunday Circle