these are the rituals we adhere to. the scars of hope. crushed deep into palms outstretched in worship. broken under crucifixes. torn beneath minarets. the hymns glide, the mantras speak, the prayers dissolve into unseen vapour. there are journeys unanswered. there are mountains moved by whispers. there are whispers moved by thoughts. each thought kept fragile in its birth. streams replace the stuttering calm. words bring us the names of the divine. wax drippings foretell the shadow dwellings. incense coaxes the heady air to move. light flaws the stained glass. gold reflects the sun in poverty. and in each corner speaks a murmur. and each pew speaks a mourning. and each balcony a blessing. and each entrance a hope. and each antechamber a revelation. and each doorway a judgment. and each brick a tale. and each faceless statue a death. and each minute that passes becomes but a trickle of damp smoke curling at the feet of a stone messiah.
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