A vivid wander in the apse,
an ancient cathedral breathes incense.
The moaned prayers for so many dead
re-echo and sound old pain anew.
How can we forget for a moment;
how does laughter yet rise from
the fullness of our quaking sides?
When the spirit-calls of emptiness--
of cloaked leavings, hidden
in the silent roar of grief--
rises like a quick flood in over-soaked ground.
It is always there, the want for those few
we miss in so many times.
Some scars close without healing
for we remember the deep rent and tear.
It phantoms to persist and exist
when we cannot do anything more
than close the sting in the eyes
No comments:
Post a Comment