The Papal Saw In A Roman Blind

I can almost hear the bells rung by the priest who sired a child. Nuncio, let that father rise to sit at my right touch. One last kiss to ease his grief in the afterlife.

I, his bastard, bid for calm like a Papal See in a murmur of signs. Confessor, hear my doubts of the Seven Dolors of Mary, Elevation of the Host.

I can see the church walking on its knees and offer my alms to a ghost who cannot see the weight of years, blood-soaked stones and the orphanage drilling its wards on the telling of beads.

My father, does he hear the lambs bleating the hundredth psalm of man's praise to God? Vicar of Christ, here is a silver monstrance, here is a chasuble of gold to pay for his release.

All our wrongs take refuge in the hospice of time. I make this offering to lift up my father's heart out of his remains, mysterious as particles of light flooding the earth from the sun.

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