Plague & battle
turn men into bones
eyes that once looked upon a passing sky
looked on it now as stones
nothing remains...nothing but
human remains.
In time it is 1776
& the local Polish parish priest
gathers & collects
this flowering of Death
collects & gathers
this Death that has flowered
lines the walls of his church
with skulls & shinbones
The Chapel Of The Skulls
(3,000 souls in all)
lines these walls
unique...grotesque
coming alive
in the camera flash
tourists trapped
tightly together
to get that one shot
that will make the folks at home
go 'Aghhhh! '
A terribly pimply adolescent geekishly greets it with: 'Cool...man! '
The living look
at the dead looking back at them
all the same
in the end.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem