Five cent candles.

Plenty of pilgrims walking the road
ready for offloading the load
when they reach the cathedral.

Ah,
they used to sell forgiveness for less than the price of a beer, everyone making a little bit here or there sharing the love, hand in glove with him up above.

Now they moan,
but sore feet and tanned skin is not the hardest way to atone for one's sins.


Getting to the next place.

The bridge is being built by artesans, foreign men with artists hands, it will last for a thousand or more years,
give the peasants a favour and there's no shortage of labour
and we only call them professionals because
it helps them to keep their pride.

Whatever
I will watch until forever turns up its toes
and nobody, not even me knows when that will be.