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Poetry

The bells released the hour.

Across the city’s silence
they echo one another like lanterns

lighted up and down the streets.

Then, like lights put out, they stop.
All is still. God has come and gone.

In empty churches everywhere

the bells still swing and quiver,
the only sound their silence,

the only presence past.

 

 


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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