The burning of the incense bowls.
Anointing of the oils.
The fruits brought from the forest.
The harvest from the soil.

Fires, that bring warmth to hands,
burn brightly on the hill.
The bounty from the hunters toil,
smoulders, blackened on the grill.

The thoughts that guide his dreams at night.
Resting with an open soul.
The fears that sometimes darken days,
are never his, not his alone.
The fear that sometimes darkens souls,
never fed with thoughts to grow.