Sun leaks through bullet holes in the sheet-tin ceiling, Sprinkling light on dead mens' clothing Piled stiff with dried blood and dust of fifteen years.
What does it mean when the stained glass windows Left intact Let in less light to this church Than the small holes in its brick walls Made by grenades Thrown from the hands of its priests?
What does is mean when the left overs of dead believers are Speckled the holy white color of Bird **** That drips From the bullet holes above?
Nearing the aisle's end, I feel an urge to touch What I don't believe I see
And look more closely.
Tangled human hairs, crusted blood, Loose threads torn from hand-stitched hems, in shreds, And insects nesting in the decay of the dead.