No Bells sound,

just silence between the drones.

 

The air is still,

from cotton shroud two waxen faces leer.

 

Saint's from painted walls,

stare with sightless eyes, mirrors not tears.

 

The living weep,

to contemplate the incarnation of The Christ...

 

here in Broken flesh,

as if laid out beneath some grotesque Calvary...

 

from the hanging sky a Choir of Peace,

where those called before hold out their tiny hands...

 

a Rapture whereupon all pain is past,

to Nothingness or Heaven, and into peace at last.