Queens Hall

A church abandoned, built by masons hands,

a few believers from their faith not swaying

whose echoes crawl through pews in expectation

a muffled pledge for their deliverance.

I sit amidst the waiting congregation

and notice some have bowed their heads while praying,

a memorable most peculiar circumstance.

The King has left the building long ago.

Devoid of spirit and divinity

the shadows of the past no longer speaking,

the stories they could tell I will not know.

I listen to the wooden ceilings creaking.

The skies above spell out infinity,

a piece of heaven, peace of mind below.

Behold her songs, her voice! Noone denies

she sings like angels on a holy day.

Now God is here behind the pews in waiting.

He shyly smiles while sipping from His wine,

her voice, His own creation, contemplating.

Invisible is He to us who pray.

To her we listen and have closed our eyes.

The Queens Hall is a venue for artists in Edinburgh. It used to be a church, hence the acoustic is great.Commentaire d´auteur

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