On o'er hills verdant

to mountains mighty

snowbound and weighty

paths few.

There I am walking.

Slowly.

Some days I am a youth and in my prime and i walk boldly.

other days, i feel even stronger, but the spell of Him who calls me lays upon me like a cloak of lead and gold.

I can stand, erect, my feet moving.

but my progress is imperceptible.

it is on these days that to be called "priest" is no small thing.

It is on these days that I know I am worthy of my blacks.

Worthy only because I have been called and anointed. Worthy only because my flesh has been turned into His flesh.

Worthy because I died long ago. My ghosts banished to a crypt beautiful, low and treacherous, wards upon them I put.

My staff, strong, I lean upon, its ebony sheen I glory in.

It's crookedness and knots I caress.

I am alone.

My only company--the knowledge that there are others making this trek--on the other side of the mountains. Then we shall meet, one day, upon the summit. and there, together, in a circle of fire and stone and death, we shall dance.

And the stars shall fall. And the gods shall rise up. And the waters shall be divided and reformed. And the meadows shall sprout fruit of lastingness.

And finally I shall no longer be even the after-image of "I", but completely the Other.