You have bent the bow.
You have pulled the arrow
to your eye
and aimed well, warrior.

Now pierce the heart
of the almighty

and bring down the Lord
of blue skies.
Become the hollow
that fills your weapon
with silence.
Be the womb of your intent,
the moonless dark
in the crescent.
Draw your narrow path
into a sphere.
Make taut the curve
of possibility.
In the hands of a master
the bow of birth and death 
is a circle with no target.
Rest where the victory
is already won
and arrows release themselves.