Church Bells

Lost in the cotton clouds,
Painted by dying flames
Embers in west, softened by
the humid streets,
The church bells, ringing true,
Filling the air with dulcet tones,
Lonely atop the old stone tower,
Carved by strong hands,
the hopes of an young man,
with an ancient heart,
looking desperately o'er the rooftops
for the life he used to know,
when firmament of body and soul
was so much clearer, now bent and
Broken like a casualty of war,
somewhere amongst the people,
crawling below like so many ants,
a fate shall be matched,
whether it be one or a hundred years,
those pale blue eyes
will know themselves once again.