Grace and Peace to you.
In mounds of snow, and snow still falling,
the train’s light threads through
the thickly woven air,
its own little world.
The old Gregorian horn,
burrowing through muffling trees,
is so thin and solitary, so far away,
the muezzin’s voice,
wrapped in a long scarf of silence,
barely calling out over the field.
But the souls bundled within
are no less precious,
traveling with the Beloved,
their hopes no less keen,
no less clearly heard.
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