I still wear a white shirt every Sunday;
it makes it seem like things are normal still.
I'm sure they'll let us back in church some day,
that little red brick building on the hill.
Your church may be a mosque or synagogue,
but I would guess you miss it just as much.
Your friends have missed your friendly dialogue,
yet all this time you've tried to keep in touch.
Perhaps a few of them will now be gone;
the virus may have claimed a life or two,
but if they are, you know you must move on;
the ones that still remain depend on you.
Sometimes God moves in quite mysterious ways,
but he will stop this thing one of these days.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem