A Lonely Ruin
Etched in my soul
is the peace of a lonely ruin,
an old chapel on the skull
of a hill surrounded by pastureland
and wind-swept trees.
Below a lake stretches into the distance,
its waves lapping the mottled shores,
its waters harboring a variety of fishes,
its surface mutating according to nature's whims.
I lie on my bed in my urban hovel,
a small window opened ajar,
I smell the effluvial stink of the dirty alley,
I hear the hellish hustle and bustle
of the mad world outside,
the world that rejected me, leaving me jobless
on the verge of homelessness
on the brink of famine.
Like a somnambulist, I walk away
like a drugged addicted old man,
and limp towards my haven far away.
The way is long, and torturous, and steep.
I fall, get up, knees bleeding, but keep on
until at last I reach the top where silence reigns.
What did I expect to find here?
I look down as the earth stretches before me.
And wonder what must He had felt
with a panorama such as this
as He hang on a tree,
blood dripping from a thousand wounds.
There was no silence then but only jeers.
Here on the skull of my haven is silence and peace
and I wonder: would there have been
silence and peace, had He
not died so many years ago?
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