Rusty stones of rich history,
Clasping debauchery and misery.
The luster of lauds that built
So sturdy and sacred a monument
To human ingenuity is gone.
The glory of God has left this place.
When men for comfort seek the less,
Placing their trust in self to impress
One another, human ingenuity is gone
For adventure's the empty pews and
Hope is the incensed processions replaced
By tourists, for God has left this place.
Carved and chiseled with ancient craft
Shaped by sun and rain and stringent draughts
She stands forgotten , old brown, dead windows,
While bustle rushes past the oldest building
of Amsterdam. Just that: The oldest building.
Heaven once met Earth right here, in this place.
But incense's been traded for coffee shops,
The light of His abode molded by red on top,
And the pentagon, that once let in light
Looks on the stone streets where spirits die.
Oh how low the hope of man has really fallen,
Not to see what could be, right in this place
Where's your crucifix oh ancient bauwerk?
The tourist go in and out, I dare not
My tears well. Where's your light? Salt?
The colors around ignore my pain.
Sin's for sale. Oh woe be all that
Took God's glory out of this place
(c) nyonglema
de Oude Kerk - exile in full view
Tag Archives: church
If only…
If only I had done more, been more, prayed more!
The sand and the mud are all mixed up
And the sun fish lie dead on the shore.
I wonder how they gasped for air, while the
Waves beat the sand, sending ripples of
Soothing sound through the air they couldn't breathe.
The plastics of the tourists are crab obstacle courses,
Once filled with juice, once desired
Now cast aside. Filth all around, and death follows.
If only I had done more, been more, prayed more!
The sand once a sheet of beige now is polka-dotted.
The dye finisher botched the mix, and the chaos
Created is just plain filth, and death follows.
I watch the Church tearing itself apart from inside
Like an infiltrated Iron-Man suit; from the inside.
(c) nyonglema
MIDNIGHT CANDLES (2002) #halloween #ghost
Eerie winds slithering over their breathing;
Flickering flames: little fireflies in the cold night.
Twinkling stars, no moon, five hearts beating,
Calling on the phantom that had inhabited his body;
Many bright dots on the slope flanking the apical church.
Mounds of earth lying by pounds of cement,
Crosses sticking out from each morbid rectangle,
Five brains wishing there was that sky crescent.
Five murmurs whispering the antique incantations.
In spite of the wind, the lurching little bright dots could not be botched.
Many frightened hearts beating, eyes observing the dark building.
What could five and candles be doing in the cemetery?
The dead are put to rest, and rest they should till the Lord’s wielding.
Five bodies ghastly illuminated by frail flickers,
Ten lips moving to disturb his rest.
Many cars honking below, noisy engines working;
Deep in their covers, many snoring unsuspecting;
The bats are squeaking, crickets screeching;
Nuptial croaks from the stream, that’s what some are hearing.
But some are eagerly watching,
In their eyes, the reflected bright specks are fluttering.
Five people are waiting in their hum for this appearing,
Five souls waiting to communicate with his ghost.
(c) Nyonglema
waghni 