Male voices, quavering with cold,
call to Christ's chosen.
The Latin archaic.
Psalms learned
thru many years of hardship.
Music is a language
all are
born
knowing

Venus hovers the horizon.
The sighing snow brings frozen hands
clutching rosary beads
to lips shivering
with piety.

The wind soughs in the buttresses
as holy monks whisper
their prayers
as cruelly hard stone
laps at their knees.

Stoic. Spartan. Men who are not men,
nor yet eunuchs, battle foes unseen,
and devils in flesh
buffet them.

It will be some hours thus.
Faces set like flint
yet soft
as the breast
of
a

dove


SoulSurvivor