Mission Santa Clara Poem by Michael Walker
Mission Santa Clara
Within the white adobe walls,
Where blood was shed on brick,
We hear the ghosts' soft, lonely calls,
For him who heals the sick.
The grapes have died upon the vine,
The golden hosts consumed,
Their lives have vanished with the wine,
Into the ground entombed.
If we listen to the breeze,
Where the priest reposes,
With Jesus we will hear the pleas
Of ghosts amongst the roses.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/23/2024 7:53:37 AM # 1.0.0.1119
