Percival
There be no church, or even a steeple,
No Sunday rush nor well dressed people
The Hawk leads the hymn, the sparrows will sing
It's a different mass you see, out here, The land,
is the Homily
Its none of the pomp, but all of the joys
And in the mist I hear the voice,
He whispers in wind, what I already knew,
You are these mountains,
and these mountains are you.
Copyright © Kristen Pastir | Year Posted 2017
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