Sacrosanct Sorata

Reminiscence of fish profusion,
of a stolen potato in the hand of the temple chief.
If not for ghosts chanting the ills of heavens,
there would be more space for love than just hearts.
He lost his right hand to the beauty he chose,
but never resisted, never once questioned,
thunders still remember there was one spirit –
like a waterfall – enduring, sacred, untamed.