‘neath skies of poverty’s making…
the simple, the common,
the calloused hands,
the baby’s cry in cold night’s grasp….
the light so few could see…
no temple, no righteous robes,
only a carpenter and wife…
no kings, no prophets,
no blaze of fury….
a child born in stillness,
that stillness formed….
abused, misunderstood,
his memory used and twisted
into something else and less….
never knowing, never seeing,
the simple truth….
the hands, fully human,
that dared to touch…
changing the darkness
with compassion’s forms…
as if a leaf turning,
and no one heard!
therein lies the beauty,
and the stillness!

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