The elderly guardians of the ancient gate

watch with wizened satisfaction

as the heart-shaped young acolytes

clean up its rust,

fix the hinges,

give it yet another

coat of paint,

and once again make

the effusive signs of greeting

seem fresh and

anticipatory.

Their kind has stood by this gate

night and day in every battering

tempest, through every howling

battle, in every

blistering drought,

and through every earth-ripping

upheaval.

They have watched over it

from the moment

the Persecutor's brain

was flattened by the

electrical storm that

transformed him into

the Fool,

the Slave,

and the Prisoner.

The gate stands ready to greet

the only One

who will ever pass through it, the one whose

arrival must surely be waiting

on the cusp of the

morning,

the one whose long-silenced voice

is even now

readying its

glorious proclamations.

Faded invitations pass

from elderly hands to callow ones,

and all gaze toward the

heavens once more,

waiting for signs

and miracles.