Her bells ring within our minds,
Slow, long, heavy thuds against
Some mystery bronze as if Tibet
Itself has lent the sound. Sorrow
Within cracks upon the drone,
A way…a path back to light
And strength upon her spires.
There are few instances where
One longs to drown. The constant
Echo of gunfire, concussions
From grenades, and the eternal
Wringing of withered, pious hands
Fade to silence in the pure orange
Flames feasting on ancient oak.
But somewhere, in a forgotten
Pocket of being, she stands still
In a cool, unending rain.
Lost in a sopping wood where
Men cannot scar her tranquil
Shade. Those bells from legends
Past ring though no hand pulls
Their ropes. If one stops,
Turns to the north and clears
The mind, their resonance cuts
Clear to the spine, tying us all
Into one healing flame.
I had a dream a few months ago of a majestic Cathedral in rain with bronze, thundering bells. It gave me the deepest sense of peace I have ever felt. When I saw Notre Dame burning, I could hear those bells ringing in the distance. I have been avoiding publishing poetry on this blog due to a new attempt to submit to publications. But I really wanted to share this.
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