There are those who still wait on the hillsides, their weary eyes fixed on the far eastern sky. They stand with their hopes linked to all of mankind as they watch for signs of the dawn, each of them longing to see, once again, the promise, the holy confirmation, as the darkness disappears in the presence of the light. Slowly, the aurora emerges along the horizon like the casual opening of a seraphic eye, casting prismatic rays out over the landscape, painting a lanquishing world with the colours of joy.
Mingling mystery with memory, the light travels through gardens graced with cherry trees weeping in candescent blooms of pink.
It blazes through cathedral windows, their picturesque puzzle pieces trembling with the resounding hosannas of song.
It illuminates the stage sets of my memory with ephemeral beams that shine down on my father as he once again places an Easter gardenia into the palm of my hand.
It warms with a radiance that remembers the best of our future whilst turning to ashes the worst of our past.
Be they twisted and coiled as the back of a serpent, or a continuous ribbon of white flowers and moss, this beacon still shines upon all of our pathways - no stone can eclipse this light.
And we may follow it, singing, up over the hillsides,
on up through the clouds,
all the long, long way back,