Thursday, August 13, 2020

Shrine

 Death and destruction seem imminent

Bombs are getting more frequent

The crops are failing, the animals are dying

I dream of flying

Seeing the world at my feet

Up there it is peaceful

At eight years of age, I am comfortable with the possibility of death, so long as heaven awaits me

With a defeated face and a hopeful heart

We walk, mother and daughter to the shrine

My father built it, a the priest was house arrest

Kneeling on pebbles we pray the Angelus each day

Asking Our Lady to stop the war

Most days I don't see the point

But at eight, I don't have the wisdom of a priest, a sense of duty like a father, nor a heart like a mother