Step by step, a child jumps to the end of the stone stairs
She walks aside with her mother, holding hands, skipping
Following, two young lovers clasp each other's arms
Pulling themselves close from the crisp winter’s wind.
Still, he waits for his innocent mark.
Two pilgrims, one grey, covered by a mask,
The one, chattering, smiling until she sees him.
But, alone, a pilgrim, white and unmarked, takes a steadfast stride, holding his wooden staff,
Oblivious of the cold, swirling leaves around his feet, and the shadows of fierce lions' statue,
Absorbed in thoughts.
This is the one.
He is the target.
Standing in the shadows, blending between trees,
Melding into the silent figures and the multitude,
Slowly, deliberately, he takes his position.
No sudden moments holds his breath
It is time.
Brilliant sun lights up in the pilgrim’s soul
He takes the shot.
It is done.
He retreats to the shadows,
Blends into the trees and his quarry's shade,
Disappearing to the crowd.