Ezra Bature

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Ezra Bature
Tuesday 16 December 2025

Never Go Far

What I place in your hands must bear no wound.

Draw it near

fasten your sleeve against the wind,

quiet the space around you

as the Shunammite once prepared a room

for what heaven would pass through.

This is for your night

a rose that knows no withering,

the Son of Man who chooses silence over song,

who writes instead

a living letter unfolding,

descending gently into your depths

and leaving you whole.

Do not exchange this for lesser weight;

small coins cannot purchase what time itself respects.

Cradle every word.

Leave space

something sacred already waits

at the threshold of your door.

You know it.

You carry a healer within reach.

Let me be the remedy.

Let my herbs rise and sway

to Solomon’s ancient wisdom

upon the resting place of Eden.




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