Ancient Basilica

Archways of defiance,
Aqueducts of light
The burning windows
Look through their souls
And find a confessional.

Inside the box
On the seat of
Golden tapestry
There lies an
Open book, full
Of stanzas and commas.

There is no one at
The other side of the confessional.


The Virgin sunbathes
In the afternoon rays,
To lose her Eastern colour
And acquire a
Mediterrenean glow.
She aches with an agony
So deep, when
She hears the
Whispers of the
Silent tears.

There is no one at
The other side of the confessional.

She keeps vows
In Her hair
Which changes
With the sun
As it sets and rises.

The benches looking up
To Her burn with
The heat of ten summers.
They cool down, so soon.

There is no one at
The other side of the confessional.

The confessional is empty
And the Virgin has
A new song each day,
A new pose each month,
And the same fireworks each year.
For centuries
Her beauty
Has been worshipped.

There is no one at
The other side of the confessional...