Stuck, encassed in the monastery, A ghost of years gone by, Contemplative life of silence, by choice, Prayer inside stone walls. Arches leading to flourishing vegetable gardens, Toiling daily. Early morning chanting, Simple meals, Itchy sack cloth. Riders came for King and country, came stole and destroyed, Holy, charitable men impaled on bloodied swords. Relics stolen, books burnt, Fire stole our rooms and roof, Greedily licking up wooden remnants, In spirit the heat still burns. I look through the archway, the same deteriorating stones, The garden is now a bull field. Derelict monasteries attract the occasional tourist, I see no other souls. Perhaps my lack of faith was my undoing, I cannot leave through the archway, I am not free.
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