On heathen days we might be blessed,
as we have no religion, you and I,
we dwell in churches
to seek shelter from the rain
but find tears in our eyes
as we are not alone here.
The people who once prayed
under this roof, between these walls
linger in a crowded way, unseen,
we feel the cold damp sadness,
not from the rain that falls outside
nor from the mould. They are the prayers.
In desperation voices whisper, beg and stay,
a pray for afterlife to give them hope,
and then they suffer till their death
but they are heard beyond their graves,
beyond their time. Beyond belief.
We seldom leave an ancient church in joy.
We seldom cope with such abundant misery.