Where altars stood, a meeting place is found; No blood is asked, no offering of pain. The good draws near when will and world are bound, Their pulse in phase, their contact free from strain. To sacrifice is loss that seeks repair, But contact is completion’s quiet flame. No victim waits; the space itself is fair— Two currents merge, and neither one is maim’d. So goodness shines where nothing has been torn, When presence meets its echo and is born.
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