In this Christmas times we can't forget all the little Chapels scattered on the landscape, alone in the middle of nowhere, waiting with its door open like it was saying welcome, with that tender voice some of us remember coming from our Grandmothers.

From a chapel calling to Sunday's prayer,
a refuge to souls that needs redemption,
summoning all believers...and the others,
the bell sounds like a wailing ghost.

Tiers after tiers with faces full of guilt,
expecting forgiviness for unfaithful thoughts,
yet, wanting something for their prayers
and never feeling the pain nailed on the cross.

There is the bell, the old tower's heart,
like a captive thunder inside the bronze,
giving of shattering silences a song...
to the angels, that never heard such a voice.


But at night, when all the shadows come,
where the sounds of that bell go?
Perhaps it keep on ringing and we don't hear
when she are calling in another world.

From a chapel's old tower, calling,
the bell is wailing like a ghost.