This is the sound -
In moments of quiet and detachment,
I hear it.
I know the words repeated in darkness.
They slide over damp grass
And broken cobblestone.
The march of the saints stops here,
And converges upon white doors
And polished marble floor.
Their litany echoes in haunted streets -
Phillip, Anne, Peter -
And past, into shadowy gardens
And narrow alleys,
Over the seers of years and secrets,
Raising the restless dead -
Sprawling beneath that glorious purple sky.
This is the sound.