Siting in America, a quaint little mission church built by the Jesuits of England long ago.
Serene, quiet, gentle whispers cross the wind, speaking of Father Kino and much later the Franciscans.
Teaching Catholicism to Indians, helping them to plant and tend for food so they could make it through cold winters and long lost summers in the desert.
A unique glimpse of the past as it now falls into ruins before us.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem