The rich fled from their churches,
their faces flushed
The poor remained in the parks
with the birds squawking at their feet
Blood, fabric, hymns- clashes of humanity with art
When asked about the past, the bravest would utter,
Holy water couldn't save me, all the priests saw me in the flood
So the wind prompted,
Whisper to the deities of troubles, the paradises, the wars;
hear them shiver
When the authorities passed by
the laity revealed,
They told us to confess that we were wicked in nature, sinners from birth but we always liked the thought of innate good
-c.j.