He has an air of otherness.
He wears an old black suit.
Either he has lost weight,
or the suit was stolen, or borrowed.
He has a seriousness.
Or is it sacredness?
Like a heart in a chest pocket,
he harbors and guards
a secret black moth.
In his hands, he carries
something kin to a cross.
It is hard and sharp.
He grasps it tightly.
Tears come easily to his eyes.
He is not a myth. He is real.
He is made of five words,
stone, water, wind, fire, mind.
