Lonely spirits, traipsing the aisles in church,
wondering what could have happened to all the
pious, holy people who were once inside every day.
Sayings being spent in bygone days, no longer
applying to the rhetoric of today's world.
Lighting the matches of destiny as candlelight
extinguishes itself in self-deprecating silence.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem