A poem inspired by a certain Roman pontiff and this photograph from my June 2013 pilgrimage to Italy.
As dark is giving way to dawn,
Pigeons coo and pilgrims yawn
And stumble up the cobblestone
Too gripped with excitement to wince or groan
On their way to seven Mass.
Here, the shadows fall and fade
And dance along the colonnade
Revealing grandeur hidden deep
Past Roman eyes, still thick with sleep.
But close, across the grounds does stand
The room, home to a simple man,
Who doubtless rose before the night
Gave way to morning's first clear light,
Swift and quiet like a prayer,
So humble, no one saw him there.
As businessmen their coffee take,
He reads the news and has a cake
In a simple room alongside guests
And Swiss who do not dare protest
And says hello to all who pass,
And learns of hap'nings near and far.
Deliberately he chooses dates
With strangers far beyond his gates,
This man who topples bigger walls
Than saintly Karol witnessed fall
With simple words and simpler acts
Not even enemies attack.
Their minds befuddled by his smile,
Confused and taken far aback.
Not one knows how quite to react.
Each man breathing heavy breath,
Cold and dark and close to death,
Could not have fathomed what it would take
To jerk their weary souls awake.
Afflicting comfort-built malaise,
This man's words cut through walls of haze
That clouded vision, thick for years,
And caused us to have deafened ears
To Truth the other pontiffs spake.
Outside the square, the Romans rise
And wipe their sleep from rested eyes
Feeling somehow new today
But as to why, not one can say.
In the distance, gleaming gold,
The great façade looks grand and bold
And beckons artists, poets, priests
To come inside from off the streets
And warm their souls with precious light
Streaming in from lofty heights,
Allowing them to flee from night
And stand upright and reach for heaven.
Every day and every year
And every night and every tear
That's fall'n upon her marble floors
And passed through her wooden doors
Tells tales of grace which lies within--
Sheer power to forgive their sin.
The Word, though, falls on closed ears
Filled with tours about the art
And passes by the quick and smart
Too far away to see Him near.
Even now the axe is laid
By trees grown tall and dead and grey
Refusing to be pruned or stemmed
Thus blocking light from feeding them.
Fear is strong and causes death.
The man prays fervently for Breath
To come and fill the lungs of she
So cold and wrapped in misery:
A bride who from a wicked Fall
Could not remember Him at all
Who first spoke words of love to her.
And judging by his gentle smile,
His jarring words that travel miles
Through voice and print and cyberspace,
We dare not turn away our face
Or faint or fail or fear or fawn
But wait and watch night turn to dawn
And witness what will soon transpire:
Something very like a fire
Starting small but catching quick
The darkness, soon, no match for it.
The shadows rise, but then they fall,
Just as they do on Peter's wall
In morning when the Roman sun
Has run the race and all but won
The battle with the moon and stars.
A greater battle soon will come--
Will still be fought and still be won--
With gentle eyes and gentle acts,
Causing stony walls to crack,
And turning stony hearts to flesh,
And putting silent wars to rest.
Our cue we take from a simple man
Who, with firm resolve, his ground he stands,
Yet never violent-- roaring, storming.
His methods are more like the morning.
