He stands like a mountain, unmoving,
carved from the stone of resolve,
his back turned to the whispers of yesterday.
Between him and the past lies a chasm,
a gulf no word or weeping can bridge.
His eyes are cast upon the horizon,
not with longing, but with defiance,
as if to forbid the sun from setting.

He is a vessel of will,
unshaken by the tempests of doubt.
The earth beneath him bears no roots,
for he has buried the seeds of memory deep,
turning the soil with hands unyielding.
He carries no questions,
only the certainty of his path.

The light of my soul falls upon his shadow,
but he does not turn.
“Walk,” he commands, his voice steady as stone,
and I walk,
my feet striking the earth he has shaped,
the echoes of my steps swallowed
by the silence he wields.

Behind me, he remains,
a sentinel, a hunter,
his hands heavy with the tools of finality.
He stands among the echoes of voices unheard,
the promise of thunder held in his gaze.
He does not falter,
for his is the burden of knowing.

And I, trembling in the shadow of his presence,
feel the weight of his unspoken truths.
He is the storm that loves,
the abyss that holds,
the force that binds me to this earth.
Though I fear his silence,
I know no other home.