Non-believer in a holy land,
Stained glass tells my favorite fairy tales,
While crypts whisper to the Angel choir,
"Gloria a Dio.. Cristo Pietà."

The street reeks of burnt things,
Incense offered to the man in the hills.
Perched above the people and nestled below the heavens,
The tranquil streets carry their own version of history.

Father says this place holds magic,
And I fear to displease him.
I'll pray for him on graves and make blood sacrifices,
But not for me, my soul is already liberated.

The streets glow bright neath the shadow of church spires,
A history that speaks for itself.
The hills will sing its praises as will I,
For the piazza of storytellers,
For the direct line to martyrdom,
Never will I fathom them.