A prayer without a god
In front of the Cathedral, time lets its wounds bleed.
A woman with hands hollowed by prayer
shakes her palms to count her outline,
to see if she still exists, if her skin
is heavier than the air, more real than the shadow.
But the wind takes her body and tears it apart,
and in the eyes of the passersby, only a murmur remains,
a question without an answer,
a prayer without God.
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