He keeps the ancient vow,
a binding covenant with the sun.
He dances before the cave mouth —
broken symbols cradled in the crook
of one arm, a perpetual fist
on the other — circling the fire,
sending chants into space
with the rising smoke,
a constant drone of syllables
in a language unknown
to the listeners.
A tourist attraction shaman king,
descendant of proud warriors
for the Sunday Whirl