The clouds raced by
Hiding the sun.
A chill breeze
Rearranged
Dead leaves on the ground,
And the echoes of the words
Spoken inside, also
Scattered on the deaf stones
Of time-worn steps
By the cathedral entrance
As hurled grains of rice,
Doomed underfoot,
Lay destined
As today's fodder for the
Pigeons of the square.

- J. Sandy