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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The Vatican hides many books, but some stories bleed through stone. He was Pope Fourteen, God's chosen hand, A shepherd cloaked in crimson and command. But beneath the weight of holy crowns, A man still burns when no one's around. She was Anna, a Catholic nanny, pure and fair, With ink-black eyes and Marian prayer. She sang the hymns with sacred grace— But bore a storm behind her face. Each Sunday night, when Rome lay still, They met below Saint Peter’s will. A hidden tunnel, cold and deep, Where secrets crawl and angels weep. There, among scrolls and serpent dust, They broke their vows in sacred lust. He kissed her sins, she moaned his name— No saint or sinner left the same. He whispered, “Forgive me, Father, for I have burned,” She answered, “Then burn again until we learn.” But fate is cruel to secret flames— The nanny’s belly grew with shame. A holy child? A cursed seed? The Curia watched, and so decreed. They took the child in robes and rings, And chanted old unspoken things. The infant’s cry became the bell— That tolls for those who sleep in Hell. A dagger carved from Judas’ breath, Was kissed and plunged to seal its death. The Pope knelt down, too numb to scream, And Anna vanished from the dream. Now when the bells of midnight toll, And incense haunts the dome’s black soul, They say a cry can still be heard— A baby’s wail. A broken word. The Pope went blind in both his eyes, But claimed he now could see the skies. He walks alone, he speaks to ghosts— And drinks to shadows more than hosts. So if you wander Vatican's night, Beware the door without a light. Where love and death once made a vow— And saints still tremble, even now.
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