In a dream-like state we follow the words,
and images projected forward;
Inside our hearts we shake and quake,
with fear of moving onward.

Holding hands our voices muted,
waiting for the gypsy chant;
Closing our eyes in the darkened room,
as candlelight hails against the rant.

From nothingness arose a silver harp,
and a statue of beauty and grace;
A view marred by smoky essences,
which pervaded this somber place.

The howling from bewitched spirits,
increased the pounding inside my chest;
But one small token left behind,
set my helpless fears to rest.

I walked away with confidence,
and held his rosary in my hands;
Promising my father I'd "keep the faith,"
that would lead me to the promised land.