The Valley Whispers

My temple is a glade,
The brook is my baptismal font,
And at the high altar of the sun
The rosary of my misdeeds
Becomes a floating song

Silent breezes shake
The mantle of the hills,
Green or greener,
Dark or silvering by turns

The valley whispers
Like a hoarse dry throat

The time to kneel,
To lift my face toward the clouds
Has come and gone:
Now the night crowds in,
Old wounds dance mayhem
As I make my way again
Along the cemetery of my dreams,
Along the careless earth of my desires

Emanuel E. Garcia is a poet. novelist, essayist and physician who now resides in New Zealand. Read other articles by Emanuel E..