I enter the valley,
Lost,
Confused,
A thin veil of longing,
Wraps itself around my soul-
I am alone,
Deep in sorrow,
Too much pain,
Has worn me down…

Then,
From my perch;
I see her,
Glimpse her sleek white towers,
Piercing the early morning mist;
She stands amid the ruins-
Whole, and pure,
Just as I remembered her-
With my child’s eye…
There was my sanctuary-
The only warmth I had ever known;
There I had learned hope…

Black cloaked priests had walked her halls then,
Smiling benignly on us all-
The women too were clothed in black,
Too white around the face—
They meant nothing to us,
These enrobed figures-
The tower was all we saw,
The bell room,
The small closets where we hid
Among hard wooden benches,
Warm air blowing ice
From our limbs…

We hid thus,
And found our own God,
Our own redemption,
We children cast out in the night;
Fleeing the violence when our parents would fight-
We sisters of a damned legacy,
Found love and peace amid her stone arches,
And lost ourselves climbing her forbidden towers,
Touching the great brass bells,
That has not rung in years,
And years,

I remembered that sound so well
When I crested that hill,
And all these years later,
Bent by age,
Withered by grief,
I saw her glowing
So white and pure,
Among the smog filled skies…
Marveling that we had both survived,
To meet again in this troubled time…

I felt my heart quicken,
Remembering our whispered voices,
Hoping their God would not hear us,
And strike us down,
For our blasphemy,
I heard that bell ringing,
As clear as yesterday’s dream,
And smelled the sweet scent of cinnamon
The smell of yeast rising
Baked in the basement ovens,
By those red faced ladies,
Smiling despite their sweat soaked faces…

I couldn’t help but think,
How would they know,
Those black robed figures,
Touched by God-
How could they have known
That it was more than our souls,
They fed on those early Sabbath mornings…