Iman

Scorched is the land 'neath where my feet lie,
where rain burns black in the dark, night sky.
A shore lines the sea but a stone's throw away,
whilst waves beat stones into soft, sandy slaves.

They ebb and flow, erode and build,
crush and caress; as a lover's feud.

Even seven leagues below, there shines a shimmer of light:
each sliver so pale, yet there's something in sight.
Like a flame on a wall in a makeshift niche,
from a distance, great, and somewhat discreet.

It burns and glows, flickers and fades,
reaches and calls, as a guide to faith.