Strewn with age old sorrow
Of the poor and the helpless.
Listening to church bells
And children’s voices
On the wind .

Descending into the swirl of haunting melodies.
Reminiscent of smoke
And darkness .
Her hair was kindled beneath
The aria of dawn .

She celebrated the pleasures
Of the flesh
Of religious lurid rites
Of lusts eloquence.
She wept for the lost magic
In a waning light
Of a primeval forest .
Before trees and fire
Had names .

She searched for a lost
Secret language
That would unlock
Her mysteries.

She carry’s an implacable
Sorrow from childhood.
Her truth was deep
Introvert able sadness.

There was no sacrament
This day ,
No absolution.
Only a rose on fire .