The wailing of Holy Imams, from minarets of
old half moon,
Calling all men to prayer, from rose dawn
to well past noon,
Of Pagodas, Mosques & Temples, the
wailing of God´s words,
Drifting up to Heaven, upon the precious
wings of Holy birds.
From grey-daubed Churches, peaked spires &
old campaniles,
Beckoning worshiping flocks to come, bend, pray
& softly kneel,
Holy
places, where sermons are read & sins are sorely confessed,
Where new babes are named & all are forgiven
& divinely blessed.
From the gargoyle-eyed, ivy-clad & dew-kissed
Cathedral steeples,
Their clanging heard far & wide, reaching
out to all God´s peoples,
Through the grand arched doors, marching all
of Sunday´s troupe,
Asking hopefully, “Is this the right road to
Heaven´s Holy route?”
But the quiet voice to which I heed & which
touches soul & heart,
Across soft gold valleys of daffodils, alone,
solitary & quite apart,
Calling good folk from far afield, to sing away
all their earthly hells,
I hear the beckoning of their soft calling,
of my little Chapel´s bells.
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