All I saw was smoke the color of sulphur staining the sky;
Our Lady floating across the firmament.
Oh how I pray we can let her die,
that steeples like hers shall no longer occlude our skies.
So life might once again surge green from her grey ruins;
Wild gardens, created by the actual force of life,
superseding our coaxed patterns fenced in to accessorize our edifices.
Let the gorgeous fire consume every construct we cherish too much
that just roses may remain- embraced only by weeds-
liberated blossoms, flourishing, where once clever gardeners singing liturgies worked shoulder to shoulder with retirees chanting atheist songs.
Both frittering away their precious lives as souls lay dying
near fires of so-called rubbish; Piles of the same matter Our Lady’s imposing silhouette was formed of.
Our Lady, Our Lord, they live within us, beside us.
See the treasure in a neighbour’s eye,
even when their gaze is angry, tired, confused,
before you waste one more moment
on schemes for more spires to scar the sky.
Worship life in the ruins where the grass will always grow.
Life prevailing beyond our tiny design.