the barefoot priest
speaking in broken latin
leads three black carriages thru
the smoking ruins

one widow mothers tears
in the ***** grey church
scraping her hopes from another
mothers broken cup

an educated man would know this symphony
would know this face of plague
box draped in the grand colors of empire
but that wont hide the horror within

the barefoot priest
stands in the desolation
and blesses the dead ground
while gathered round him
the lost desperate flock hope for shelter
from the fearful things seething at the edges of the light

dusk is a burning
that chills my soul
there is no tommorow where that cold hand touches
his blind eye sees all
his sweating mouth  bleeds