Vibrations rupture in my throat,
The voice with a soul all of its own
Coming forth to adhere to others of its kind
As an essential lone note to an anthem…
The hallowed halls, hollow, echo as if in thanks
For the pleading voices rising together
Robed in controlled beauty, clothed carefully
Like their owners’ bodies to prevent the
Chill exuded by the ancient stones,
Once carved with reverence for deity.
These walls, meant to be a fortress from the bitterness
Of the world, once betrayed their purpose for a while…
A safe haven turned into a marketplace where
Souls could be purchased at an inflated price to
Weigh down the already heavy fur-lined purses.
These steps have witnessed countless soles
From spotless slippers to working shods,
Regarding the latter two with higher esteem;
Valid love for holiness found in ratty and pilfered pockets
While their aching and grubby knees paused to pray.
I trespass on these memories, naïve, sixteen,
With a purpose greater than myself, and unknown.
The river of resonance swells, weaving, mending,
Bringing back a fraction of what had been lost.
A joy in the fulfillment of purpose brought to
An old world's cathedral by international youths.
In our verse of peace, I swear I heard it—a noise
From some far corner of the building, or maybe
The figures with tired eyes on the ceiling spoke it,
A sigh of relief like whispered hope came:
Maybe the coming tomorrows do wield promise
As a trusting peasant grips the crucifix at his neck,
Here in this world of repeating yesterdays.
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