He ran to me, gleeful and excited;
Like a child,
But with ancient eyes of piercing wisdom.

He was a Priest of the White Circle of Love.
Ordained by himself: by God.
He spoke a language we could not understand.

And so we thought it gibberish.
It is said you hurt the one’s you love;
Our love for him must have been great indeed.

We shunned him,
Mocked him.
We annihilated him.
And all because,
He spoke a language we could not understand.

He held a sacred mirror to our fears.
As he danced on the edge of existence
We could not watch, for fear we would fall.

He was a Priest of the White Circle of Love.
Sacred and profane;
Beautiful and terrible.

We turned away from the burning bush.
We would not look, could not listen.
He spoke a language we could not understand.