He stands outside the walls
with a torch. To the courtiers

his light is a novelty; something quaint
flickering like a distant star

amusing, at best, but often
trivial and dismissible. He stands there

in the rain, in the midst of wars
his beard grows long and white

his torch burning night and day.
The empire’s nobles and courtesans

occasionally remark on his perseverance
and almost always mock his passions. But

to us, the homeless peasants
his torch is an oracle

the beacon of survival
during the onslaughts of storm and pillage.

We gather around like moths
warm our eyes on his flames

thanking our goddesses and gods
that he’s here to shed light

on our forgotten lives. O, how
lost we’ll be without him.