Old Church On the Hill
© Surazeus
2018 11 27
Old church on the hill crumbles in the rain,
releasing ghosts from words in ancient books
that dissolve into mud of endless time.
After its walls crumble away to dust,
stone statue of the Virgin Mary stands
alone in silent indifference of sunlight
that illuminates features of her face,
so I hold her stone hand with eager hope
and kiss her stone lips with faithful desire.
Flushed awake with blood from hot lightning strike,
Mary opens eyes, silver as the sky
after rain, and takes me in soft warm arms
to gasp with pleasure at my tender love.
Lounging together under apple trees,
we share silly stories about our childhoods,
then run laughing as our hair swirls in wind
to sit by the river sparkling with light
and watch the water flow forever past.
I caress her cheek, red as the ripe apple
she slips in my hand, and gaze in her eyes
vast as the cloudless sky, then kiss her lips
and whisper in her ear how much I love her.
Her belly swells from the spark of my love
so she sits under the tree on the hill
where I found her in ruins of the church
and sings about angels with wings of light
while I brew apples with cinnamon, mint,
and purple mushrooms in cauldron of brass.
Drinking apple ambrosia at sunset,
we dance together in silver moonlight
to dream creation of the universe
when the first flash flares forth into white whole
that contains enormous spirals of stars
which nourish life on planets just like ours.
Gripping branch of the apple tree at dawn,
Mary screams in pain as she pushes hard
to birth healthy baby that squirms and cries
when I wash her clean, then wrap her in cloth.
Humming ancient melody of the sea,
Mary suckles new-born child at her breast.
I build new church of stone on the high hill
where Mary and our child shelter from rain,
warm by the fire that glows in cooking hearth.
Sitting on gold throne in slanting sunrays,
Mary holds our baby girl on her lap
while thousands of people standing in line
kneel one by one and proclaim her the queen,
then give us offerings of love with their hands.
Strange fever strikes both mother and child
so they lie in bed, shivering in warm light,
then their spirits vanish in wordless wind,
and their bodies crumble to dust in rain.
Old church on the hill shimmers in the rain,
as I capture ghosts with words in new books
and carve statue of Mary holding Child
that stands ten thousand years in endless rain.
© Surazeus
2018 11 27
Old church on the hill crumbles in the rain,
releasing ghosts from words in ancient books
that dissolve into mud of endless time.
After its walls crumble away to dust,
stone statue of the Virgin Mary stands
alone in silent indifference of sunlight
that illuminates features of her face,
so I hold her stone hand with eager hope
and kiss her stone lips with faithful desire.
Flushed awake with blood from hot lightning strike,
Mary opens eyes, silver as the sky
after rain, and takes me in soft warm arms
to gasp with pleasure at my tender love.
Lounging together under apple trees,
we share silly stories about our childhoods,
then run laughing as our hair swirls in wind
to sit by the river sparkling with light
and watch the water flow forever past.
I caress her cheek, red as the ripe apple
she slips in my hand, and gaze in her eyes
vast as the cloudless sky, then kiss her lips
and whisper in her ear how much I love her.
Her belly swells from the spark of my love
so she sits under the tree on the hill
where I found her in ruins of the church
and sings about angels with wings of light
while I brew apples with cinnamon, mint,
and purple mushrooms in cauldron of brass.
Drinking apple ambrosia at sunset,
we dance together in silver moonlight
to dream creation of the universe
when the first flash flares forth into white whole
that contains enormous spirals of stars
which nourish life on planets just like ours.
Gripping branch of the apple tree at dawn,
Mary screams in pain as she pushes hard
to birth healthy baby that squirms and cries
when I wash her clean, then wrap her in cloth.
Humming ancient melody of the sea,
Mary suckles new-born child at her breast.
I build new church of stone on the high hill
where Mary and our child shelter from rain,
warm by the fire that glows in cooking hearth.
Sitting on gold throne in slanting sunrays,
Mary holds our baby girl on her lap
while thousands of people standing in line
kneel one by one and proclaim her the queen,
then give us offerings of love with their hands.
Strange fever strikes both mother and child
so they lie in bed, shivering in warm light,
then their spirits vanish in wordless wind,
and their bodies crumble to dust in rain.
Old church on the hill shimmers in the rain,
as I capture ghosts with words in new books
and carve statue of Mary holding Child
that stands ten thousand years in endless rain.
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