In this kind of strength

there is such wobbling,

such surrender to the shaking fire,

wet wood damp around small sparks.

These shambala warriors

in soft robes,

no clanking armour…

deep familiarity with fear,

a humbled kinship

with those who feel its nauseous bite.

Compassion as a slithering shield,

unsteady protection when the gripping is released,

suffusing air

with the tender opposite of walls.

Under the gentle raiment,

a beautiful assortment of old scars,

new pains crippling their current postures;

beauty redefined

in a war without winners and losers.