I will close my eyes
and wait for them to ask why
I am not hopeful sleep will have a chance to infect
Before one of them whispers in my ear
Because this home is never empty
I am a refuge
for their fantastic pulsating bodies persistently animated
even in the silence of prayer
walking room to room
burning holes as they go
they think I am immune to pain
they think of me as their building
I have no skin
therefore I gain no bruises
I watch them hour after hour door open and closed
the hair, the eyes, the lips all the same
but each voice different
some complain and others beg and pray
but I never shout back
not a word, not a sound
they know I hear everything
when my candles flicker and light echoes
they can offend and blaspheme
and fight each-other
then loiter around my tombs trying to find me and declare asylum
then fall asleep on my lap
even then my lights stay on
outside their flags and posters pollute the skyline
the air is dirty with hatred, yet still
I manage to exhale and stay upright
the strong one at a funeral
I am their godfather
the first guardian on the reserve list with thousands of children
I treat each one equally
when my candles flicker and light echoes
they think they are safe
I will still be here waiting up
I will not turn out the lights at night when everyone else gets to retire
I am sorry
they have forgotten about my entrance fee
I am sorry they cannot bear the thought
of touching each others palms
and I am sorry I am ready for bed now
I want lights out
the candles that surround my corridors are seducing me
out of consciousness
they want to cradle me
and slowly swaddle me in smokey ribbons
blankets as thin as wafers
promising to keep me hidden
with curtains drawn I can sleep
and I know seekers will knock on my doors
With their questions and justifications
But I will sink further into my bed
their chants will be mere lullabies
I will be the asylum seeker
safe within my concrete walls
burrowed in the highest steeple
Unsure of the sound of my voice unsure if I have a voice
I would ask so many questions
why do you crave protection?
why are you always cold
and wrapped up in your coat of arms?
why must I watch your demonstration
when you can choose
to see me or turn your gaze and ignore?
I would also give thanks for your noise and distraction
because at last my nave is clear
and I can search and pry until I see what my voice looks like
the bells of St Ursula and Peter
the caves of the pinnacles and spires
the beating organ of the swallows nest
humming still until the next song
my voice is the shrine of the three kings it is medieval gold
and Richter’s stained glass rainbow my voice is a floodlight
and it has fallen onto its old face
rattled by harsh intolerant winds and anti-islamic gales
the candles cannot find their wicks
and they mourn for each human whose voices
were once melodies lengthly democratic songs
the tunes came from east and west north and south
illuminating the other side of the Rhine
and we remember when you imitated my stained glass window
with a gallery of nationalities
until you didn’t