A child, yes a child, a teenager, a young woman.
The war was turned, like a tide rolling out again,
pushed back by blood and light, unseen things.

No wedding day, the war had to turn, or all would
be subsumed and lost, but centuries later, it all was.
Her banner led her grace, bravery, before the night.

The fires consumed her, but the unconsuming ones
never touched her, her ashes up to the sky, to heaven,
to the God who chose her for this, formed her for this.

A child, a teenager, young women, heart unburned,
heart still pure despite the war, and everything else taken.
Whole and wet and ruddy, a relic when God was near.

Wide meadows by the forests and the silver, cold creeks.
Dreams beneath the sky as the lambs graze and gambol.
All was won, but all this time lost, but she is free forever.

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