She had wanted to be devout:
But the church itself whispered in ghosts,
And listed in wind, with a strange keening;
And the fewer the people, the lesser its charm-
She felt in some way, that it wished her harm.
For the dead had filled the vestibule,
Dark coffins on the dais-
And all the singing in the world
Could not wipe out that presence.
Weird that the tall, tall mortuary of god
Reminded her mostly (and often) of sod;
And certainly something should also be said
For those religions, kept out the dead.
For the dead had filled the vestibule,
Dark coffins on the dais-
And all the singing in the world
Could not wipe out that presence.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I feel something in these words I can not readily explain, rather like - yet not fully - the aura of sitting at the edge of rushing water, looking at one particular place in the stream, and realizing every second what you see, though appearing similar, is in fact continuously something brand new. Deep words Patti; you ever amaze me. Thank you. I am a fan!