Its ten o' clock mass,
a priest has an exchanging of words,
first with God, than with man,
his head spinning with insight.
A mission of will,
a choice of trust that is freely offered.
Reads holy scripture, scrolls head to herd
for a sign of worship and blessing.
A flock of pigeons swarm the edge of a belfry tower
as though it were the roof of the world.
They patiently perform a lifetime of logic
only for something to chew on.
There, kneeling on pew,
pondering truth as if it were bread,
I deliver a dollar to the community basket.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem