As scarlet rain creeps down the sill,
and the wind makes the willows weep,
God cries when he gazes down
upon this dark hollow.
Statues of angels scatter the ground,
many broken and lying in mournful pieces,
their once entrancing whiteness now dulled
by black soil and age.
A faint hum pervades the leaden air,
invading what should be silent,
continuing to echo throughout the walls
as if resurrecting a forgotten hymn.
And though the place is still,
and rain ceaselessly falls
upon scarlet-stained glass,
the movements of the past
are never still.