The bats that soil this church
are cherished more than it is
for the old religion
has no value now nor power.
Like all the worthless waste
of long-abandoned cities,
religion is a smidgen
that did not last the hour.
They snatched away their living
from catechising pretties,
the bat and feral pigeon
in chancel and the tower.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem