Our faith no shield from terror, yet not abandoned. The gods may find us locked within prisons of shame, our priest hauled away. Prayer beads pass his hands, trace the unbroken circle Life is suffering. Our roots are unearthed by hands unseen, wrenched up with clumps of dirt dangling. Prayer is set loose.
Offerings fill the passing winds from temples within.
Dreamers dream beyond clack of train wheels through far lands. Stillness in motion. Copyright for all materials in the Voices web site are held by the individual authors and artists unless otherwise indicated. Reproduction for commercial purposes is strictly forbidden. All copyright information must remain an intergral part of the downloaded material.