Holy, holy

In this temple
of hollow holiness,
a mind collapses
with the solitude.

We have nothing but our bodies and
our spirits calling for another day.
And terrible the kindness of an old revelation.
Terrible the voices in our heads.

In this city,
in the alleyways,
the fevered glances
of a million different faces.

Light that falls from shuttered windows,
the space between forgotten longings.
And angel choirs singing out their hallelujahs,
calling to the voices in our heads.

Whispered words pass
from lips to lips.
An ancient verse to
carry on our shoulders.

We have nothing,
we have everything
that spills from cracks in cobbled city streets.

Holy, holy sings an angel choir.
Holy, holy shout the people
and the streets are ringing out with sounds of hallelujah,
echoed by the voices in our heads.