Light emanated from behind the hill
as if to give one final hoorah before
his descent, though he didn’t hesitate until
the moment he could be seen no more.
There he stalled, not to boast in his self, but
in others, like the emerald hills and cyan sky
who didn’t fade into the light but rather jutted
out, dominating the light as he just sat by.
This light yielded to that which he lit up,
thereby making himself little and inferior to those
who depended on him to be seen; a loving cup,
as some might call he who, for others, glory forgoes.
To look at light in such an odd light brings wonder;
such a brilliant design of humility could not have been blunder.