Stone prayers,
Echoes of a thousand years,
Carved flowers grace
The great doorway.
Granite steps hollowed
In a gentle river of genuflection.
Quill pens played their slow music here,
Every letter, a phrase sung
To saints and martyrs.
The precepts of the monks were left here,
Men, intoxicated by a richer wine,
Men emboldened by machines,
Bloodstained pages,
Foundations shifted, arches fell.
Connected them, milked, docile.
Daubed their walls.
Blind, flickers of illumination,
Relics sold and resold,
The evil eye.
Clowns lead processions.
Guns follow.
Don’t plant trees in a forest fire,
Don’t whisper when bugles blare.
Empty windows look out over the street.
Someone familiar walks ahead, out of earshot.
Language itself is innocent,
Tongue and tongue intermingled,
Thought begat breath,
Breath begat thought.
An empty bowl,
An elixir,
Rock is too fickle a foundation.
Every autumn I love again its lonely walks,
Ragged skies, reflections in puddles,
Every cold breath, in silent waiting,
Every sound a message in an unknown language.
Stop shouting.
I can’t hear you.
The wind isn’t listening,
Yet you can’t speak without it.
