Voices rising in silken golden arcs,
Each syllable a glimmer in the air,
Each line a lantern, softly borne
Through the hush of expectant pews.
They gathered words like petals in their palms,
Breathing rhyme’s ancient rhythm into dusk,
Where hope and longing, gently spun,
Wove harmony from memory and dust.
Above, the vaulted ceiling caught their notes
And scattered them like starlight, trembling,
Until the quiet soul below
Remembered how a heart may open,
How verse becomes a bridge of sound,
And in that music, all are found.