My eyes shut,
As the ringing is heard,
Of the bell,
In his hands.

The silence is broken,
As he chants,
The first few words,
To our prayers.

We repeat,
In sync,
Every word,
Is beautiful.

The light,
Still bright,
Sitting in it's lamp,
Sitting on the table.

Flowers,
Neatly cut,
Yet wild,
Pleasing needs.

The scent of sticks,
Drift across the room,
Putting smiles on our faces,
As he preaches.

Everything placed,
Has a deep meaning.
Referring to death,
With reality.

When we have gifted the people,
And the room with our blessings,
We open our eyes to the works,
So he can teach us something.

He talks and explains,
The points of life.
What it is like to be,
One of his kind.

Stories spill out of him,
Yet still keeping time.
That's what a trained priest does,
Know what he says and why.

When he is finished,
We seal the lament,
With a silence,
One can only desire.

We pray and wish,
In our hopeless minds,
For our lives to become better,
For it to extend,
And for the love of our children.

And when all,
Is wished and said,
We leave the place,
And this wonderful, peaceful,
Religion.