The cathedral, tall as treetops, stood behind the broken land.
Echoing bells.
They rang throughout the city streets.
Requesting deliverance.
"Bring out your dead"
Tolled out by those who won.
Or as yet had not succumbed.
The broken ones cried out in vain.
Life could never be the same.
Daily, here passed by the cart,
Attendance of the red-crossed doors,
Passed by time.
And time before.
Bells called to the parishioners.
Please have faith, or so it seemed.

The cart approached another door.
The occupants were doomed for sure.
Of faith and love, of truth and lies,
The family of the dead do die.
There is no choice.
No simple voice.
Very little chance of life.  
Old Mr Smithers, he lost his wife.

Today with modern medicine.
Perhaps they would have stood a chance.
(C) LIVVI