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A stone lies shadowed at morning,
Its figures carved long like the shore.
An acolyte lies on it, yearning,
For flames that stoke now no more.
This birthright, he sold for quiet,
A peace but traded for pride,
His scorns, his scar - once scarlet,
Now fades: and so his stride!
To which the eastward sun, foreseen,
Blinks by the shade, above,
Tracing the vestige of figures beneath,
And their voices that beckoned thereof:
“To the Sun belongs the truest light,
“And with it, heard let, and be,
“The fire of men was not for fight,
“But the fight sealed tight in he.”
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