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Post by goldenmyst on Dec 25, 2023 18:09:28 GMT -5
Sacred Space
He is a priest not a soldier Not in the line of fire Christ wasn’t trying to start a revolution And neither is he.
Sons of Spanish explorers Kneel beside daughters with calloused hands From picking coffee beans When the sun dawns Until Sol falls to his knees And sinks like the parishioners In humble obeisance So those of African descent lend their ear To absorb this lesson so long coming For their ancestors who wore chains But now gaze from the pulpit As ghosts in the genes Of this man of the cloth And the Pre-Columbian Quechua speakers Find a secret smile Reflected in his Incan eyes And they sing as a Spanish choir Of canaries with one voice Until bread is broken And in this sacred space Rich and poor linger On the threshold of a dream When dialects merge Into the language of love
But zealotry decrees the bullet that flies And ricochets off the crucifix he bears Like a shield of faith Only to shatter stained glass window Of the devil tempting Christ Into which a single sunbeam pours Through the crack that lets the light in
The pistol wielding prisoner of fate Dashes into the noon When the church bell rings Man of the cloth signs the cross Over a heart that still beats In the peaceful center Of his sacred grotto
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