like the wing of a falcon gliding high in the sky.
In that moment all things manifest:
the market place, the merchants, the transactions.
We light candles to illuminate the dark,
because we remember the light, and long for its return.
We are but the lingering of the shadow,
persisting though the light has returned.
Looking at the mirror we see only this lingering,
Seeing ourselves through the eyes of others,
we see the lingering again.
Each shift of our mind outward brings a new perspective. How do I seem? To myself, to my friends, to my family, to my enemies, To strangers? We agree and do not agree with their views, yet in all there is some truth. The secrets they do not know of us, hidden in our dark places, vanish in the light. We cannot be found in those places, for we feel we are made of more enduring stuff than the lingering memory of a shadow.
