The Clicking in the Shadows
The bells have fallen
silent in the steeple’s height, night.
The city exhales a heavy,
humid breath.
The sun retreats to give
the moon the night,
In mourning for a sacred,
ancient death.
The streets are lined with
wax and whispered street's prayers.
As thousands trek to touch
the wooden feet,
While incense drifts
through every narrow street.
The pung and chow are whispered like a
rite,
A sharp contrast to the
stations on the wall.
Outside, the candles
flicker ghostly white,
Waiting for the heavy
"Santo Entierro" call.
A clash of worlds in the
humid evening air:
The solemn march, the
"Pasyon" sung so deep,
And four souls gathered
round a wooden chair,
Playing for the
secrets that they keep.
Between the silence and
the clicking sound,
The Good Friday shadows
stretch across the floor.
One world is lost in
sorrow, heaven-bound,
While tiles are shuffled behind a bolted door.
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