A pilgrim’s faith would have led you there:
The pinching of beads, ceramic versus bone,
The allotted prayers, the spent breath,
Taking the circuit as you find it,
And sleeping the night with an open eye,
Ready to scurry on before it’s too late:
“Not all at Fatima saw, not all!”
An old man’s comforting cry heard as he works alone,
Covering miles to snatch the hem of the mist.
Let them appraise, applaud the tumult in the sky,
But who then shall know those washed white,
The tear of seals, the trumpets’ might?