Your time
Stands still
As motionless
Butterflies caught
In your ancient stillness
Decorate the backdrop of ages
Drawn by your ageless inner light
Held fast there by the force of your being.

How many have died to name you with their belief?

How many sacrifices does your jealousy demand of us?

Our frozen fluttering is a testament to the terror of your power.
Indifferent you allow us to expend ourselves in our passion
For the unfathomable depth of beauty that shines
Whether celebrated in the unity of love
Or ground to dust by a steel-shod heel.

Fluttering to you
I find no fault
Only the paradox
Of white stones flecked with red
That might be iron
Or might be blood. 

-- Tom Rubenoff