And so, the mighty bend low before the Saint?
The misery of his meagre apparel, the antithesis of all they strive for.
And yet, is there not something of power in renunciation?
What is it that moves behind those placid eyes?
Something steely and beyond the merely material.
What secret whisperings are those ears privvy to?
What is it that needs not their trappings
And heeds not their vainglory?