Through Europe are the bones of Saints fought over, purchased, collected over centuries to gain reward, entry to a greater kingdom than this brief life can offer. John the Baptist left his arm, silver encased, in Istanbul. His skull in Munich, while his fingers, toes and thigh lay encased in gold and jewels in parts more distant. The thumbs of Peter and Paul, torn from their Roman tombs, wait out the trumpet call in Ireland, an investment to a higher plane for those buried close hoping for return. Saint Mark rests easy in Venetian gold His body hard won, rocked in gondala'd bliss, a celebration of a city's past commercial blessing. In Rome is the manger, prayed over by a massive Pope, Encased in crystal, gold captured from some Mayan Prince whose soul, saved by inquisitive priests, now drifts from its ancient pyre toward the stars... Tiny suns beating as the hearts of infants raised in celebration of a greater God. In Diocletian's baths Gregorian voices chant their faith, channel hope in Saint Justinian's bones . And, in a distant square, Saint Agonese hides, her church a tomb unvisited by all except the curious, forgotten in incense laden dust. In Paris, French saints built palaces for crowns, their thorns preserved in reliquaries, while nails, still cased in bloodstained oak, hold pride of place on altars waiting for a communion yet to come. And modern tourists, pause but to wonder not at hope eternal but at the craft, the lives of artists uncanonised...
If you've any comments on this poem, Alan Papprill would be pleased to hear from you.