The Meditations of Normandt

Amid the clash of tongues that rend the air,
Where taunts and rumors feed the endless flame,
Where colors pill the weary in despair,
And fleeting passions fight for fleeting claim,

There stands a voice unshaken, calm, and still,
A daily thread that weaves through storm and spite.
While hubbub shakes the forum to its will,
His words descend like dew at fall of night.

For when the rage subsides, as rage must fade,
And silence gathers all its holy breath,
The quiet seed of prayer his hand has laid
Speaks louder than the thunder of their death.

So Normandt posts, unmindful of the din,
A faithful lamp that burns and will not dim.