I recall the sweet remnant of a dream:
The ruins of a church on an ancient street.
Inside its weeping walls were worn and grey
And old stone statues seemed to grimly stare.
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What a great combination of poem and picture. How can religion articulate herself in this rampant, modern age? The poet shows that one way can be poetry.
Although it columns were cold and broken And where we stood shadows seemed to lengthen, It was filled with a gentle, mystic light: Healing our hearts with its radiance white. church, holiness, prayer, mystical light and fineness and goodness. love this poem. tony
Thanks Tony...I really appreciate your perceptive comments.