blessing the stars with wand-like olive branch he heeds not eyes that shift askance, fears no tremble of the sky, will not obey commands to die. Lifts his branch as if a palm as clear hosannas echo calm, calm beyond all form of speech. His innocence cannot be reached by sulking shapes. Rasp your anthems of despair, O dragon! Ragged tongue, he hears you not. But night is long. Above him bends his branch still waving in the wind as if conducting vesper songs. In mock humility, beast is bowing, all deceit. All that heaves there, incomplete, hissing threat of darkness in monotonous lament. Nothing of you touches what he is. His back to you, he faces open sky. ''His fate,'' you cry, ''my hate has sealed! Eternity is unrevealed to him!'' Yet the branch still waves in perfect rhythmic arc - welcoming, welcoming - his music the trees are singing now the sand is singing the world hears it now, yes the whole world is awake to it . . . Shadow, moan your deaf snake-song, he hears you not. He's of his own - brimming with the sound of Light singing infinitely in this creamy dawn . . .