Honour is flashed off exploit, so they say…

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Otto’s Light

The cool breeze is only felt on brows that sweat
and colder spirits never feel its breath.

The knowing gaze is blind.
The doing and the wanting and the having of our lives,
Remains unseen.

But the light that can’t be seen is always shining on our striving.

It shone, of course, from Moses;
Descended from the mountain
And before him no doubt many others.
The companions tell of such a light,
In Inigo’s last days.
Little brother Schultz had quite a glow
As he neared his rest.

And Hauptmann Otto of St Francis,
Far from the battle-roar,
in his Trinity of blaze-bright lights,
At Morningstar
In Morningtown,
like those before him,
Kept the door.

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