Sunday dawns, holy songs,
Sweating through the divine gates,
Seats on the verge of the streets,
The whispers of the little mistiness,
Well hidden in your soul,
Gossip the similar dreams,
But one can smell the blade!
His hands so tiny,
Holding the samurai,
Indeed, god enigmatic conducts,
As the child-man pushed open the church!
Few parishes’ kept holding the note high,
In trance, affront of the crucified man,
Verses and screams bounce again the walls!
One, two, three, a sharp stroke,
No blood, few pieces of plaster,
As Jesus Christ` head decapitated rolled along the way,
He turns his back to his audience,
Glitter and devil dust sparkle,
As he fined his Mary, paralyse by chock!
Empty as her eyes lock on his blade!
No songs, no verses or sermons,
Before anyone’s knew,
Her face turn blue as the samurai stroke her throat!
Sunday dress soaks by the blood of Christ!
Like a dismantled doll!
She kept sat for what seems eternity,
Until, her young flesh gently felt to the ground!
The tiny hands let goes of the blade,
The voices have stopped,
In the dust, he search and grabbed her cold fingers,
Holding tight, all silence and shadows,
Appears without any warning,
Absolution, the wind of the lord swallows it all…