Shake the feathered rattle,
Paint my face with charcoal and ash,
Wave the bamboo wand
In front of my sleepy eyes
...
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There is something about this series of imperatives, and end 'release', that has me gripped. A grand penning G, as always. t x
I'm guessing that the reactions to this poem would vary greatly. . Me? I felt everything pilgrim in me become puritan. . I'm much too private and contained for spiritual displays.