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He stands beneath guardian trees,
his saffron garments glossed with gold.
Hands cupped, body bent,
he softly swells as he dips
beneath sun and rain.
He speaks to me:
wild prophet from an ancestral book
that I believed in when I was a child,
but no longer read or understand.
I try to interpret the aroma of his lips,
his slow, small growth of gesture.
His winged words are traps
tripping my tongue, clipping my wings,
preventing me from flight.
Shape-shifter, she changes before my eyes
and takes on her earthly disguise.