Right across the street
With the bells ringing abruptly
The woman she prays
With her fingers crossed
She kneels down on the floor
Of the church which doesn't exist
And wails for the unborn children
And the chaos in their afterlives
Next to the church is a bucket of green paint
Behind whitewashed fences
Of the graveyard
And the sparrows fall into the bucket and
Disguise themselves as harbingers of the
Unknown
The lady walks into the confession room
Of the church which doesn't exist
And wails about the glory of unrequited soldiers
Prays for their worthy souls
And from behind the sparrows
Fly above the chandeliers
Reach her ears
And whisper continually
"You're dead,
We're not harbingers
We're dead too
This church doesn't exist
Those children are now successful
Those soldiers have been rewarded
You're dead."