Shen, at Night

When holiest Shen walks, the moon gloams red. With each stride, her right foot steps into the future; her left, into the past. Like mourners, we cling to her hem, drawn in her wake from remotest village to black-stoned shore, to ailing tower long shucked of purpose. Our footprints fill her own, and in the filling are made deeper.

But holiest Shen does not ponder her passage. Nor does she sleep.

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