Flesh and blood come carrying
your festival, you tired men.
Here is your water,
here is your bread.
We come with the offering
of presence, our joy,
the words and chatter
that filled your homes
now a fleeting gift.
Moving through your still grey buildings
the wind breathes in your silence,
we breathe in the wind.
Our eyes catch your names
and give you voice again –
mumbling you back
to say hello.
carrying their light 
Reblogged this on The Darkness in the Light.