The High Altar
is in and back and down
those white stone steps to where
it all began, from where
we all have come, from root
to mountain's inner cone
the highest tip of rock
so polished you can
see your face in
mirrored, like a dream
and at that white high stone
carved and polished, worn by time
and touching hands, won by climbing hard and long
you kneel and cry and tell
the days you've done, the love you've known
and hope your heart 
is lighter than the weight they test you on.
Holy City
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