The Shrine

Wood falls on grass ground

Axe swings and saw chops

One walks through alone

A bucket and brush in hand

And upon each tree,

Red marks (the angel of death shan’t spare thee).

He reaches a clearing

Grass over there grown

And flowers of a myriad

Sprouting around

Guiding the eye to the central piece

A tower of stone

Standing eye to eye.

A girl stands now before that tower bold

Bearing the gifts of her village (flowers, cheese)

An offering to the gods who put it there

The tower is taller than her (though not for long)
Marred by marks and symbols
Paint and carving

Holy