The monastery, a home of belief —
It doesn’t matter which — slowly decays.
The roof beams go first, nothing wooden stays.
Moss paints the stone arches in bas-relief,
Images of dead and forgotten grief.
We live in roofless rooms with a sly thief,
Who steals, first our parents and eldest friends,
Then our useless youth, which he quickly spends.
Our music and books are replaced with fakes,
Our mirrors with odd faces, double takes.
Though I could not kill the thief if I would,
I defy him — plant flowers, kiss the wind.
I have children I hug; I’ve seldom sinned.
He can’t have my memories, bad or good.
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