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On the hot day, the grime of crumpled paint

Falls off the walls whispering a little sluggish

And the sun pierces the spider webs

Squeezes with sound into tight spaces

From the walls painted in the old days

Faces dusty with the passing of time are gazing down

Sometimes smiling, sometimes quietly sobbing

Unable to turn their heads or close their eyes

The floor strewn like a bed of contempt

Cold, musty, unwashable

The drops from the face, flowing slowly

Remain forever, soaked up by the planks

They are like monuments, like brandings

Pierce the darkness, disappear into nothingness

They are like a stigma, like a scars on my face

They stay forever and lull me to sleep

And only cunning mice, whispering stealthily

Stories that are both horrible and interesting

Running among the screams, the groans of throats

They sometimes touching a dusty, filthy cassock

Remembering the smells of incense and moldy crumbs

Wafers fallen, trampled into the floor

And the torn garments lying side by side

Reflected in the mirror of despair

Whisper quietly among themselves, will the end ever come?