Circling around the Tower for ten thousand years or more,
Sometimes a soaring eagle, others days as untempered storm,
Crying in sorrow on the bloodied plain,
Singing mighty songs— one day of praise, the next of sorrow.
Prayer rises from summit of the ancient tower,
Pausing before lifting from solidity of rock to God.
In dreams, it intrudes against dark surface of the mind,
Grey columns splinter, break away, fall in pieces.
Still it floats above clouds, rises to heaven in early morning light.
Sacred to many tribes, it waits in every season,
Close encounter with Divinity as metaphor of ageless Infinity.