The Basilica of Bethlehem
I fumble as I approach the sacred Basilica, the upturned wine glass that stretches ten-miles in diameter. I bow my head, respectfully, as I follow the procession ‘neath the spire, the stem, the funnel that stretches endlessly into a cask-oak coloured sky.
On stony bridges, we walk, over the streams of lava that flow like liquid sunsets through the long-forgotten approach ways.
The Basilica of Bethlehem is the last testament to humanity.
They say humanity built this place. A last sanctuary, on this holy ground. When men of faith gathered arms, rather than linking them. Where the dull shine of automatic weapons was more precious than gold. Where the smell of spent incendiary devices, instead of campfire meals, filled the once-pure air.
They are supposed to be our ancestors.
I know that I am still a child, but I’m wise enough to know it is no more real than fairy stories or myth.
But yet, I kneel. I pray.
Metropolitan Dreams 