There is nothing holy
About any particular night
Unless you fill it
With song and silence,
Old stories told again,
Foods long remembered,
Perhaps a warming drink,
And a few good companions,
Family or otherwise,
Who have come through the bad times,
And the good times, to be here now.
There is nothing sacred
But what is made sacred
By the diligent effort
Of imperfect men,
And nothing is saved
From the fire of the ages
Except the endless moment
In which we briefly live.
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