We trudge again,

Heathens into yet another city of Abraham;
Foreign soils becoming less and less alien as the wheels spin.
Evertolling bells aloft cathedral towers, 
Pierce gently through muffling clouds,
Stark against inquisition-red skies.
Once this was all gardens,
Now fields of swords planted in untilled rusty sand;
Pilgrims know the Jubilance of the ossuary,
Like the backs of long ashen hands.
Soaked in colored smokes and rib-scriptures,
Elbow-deep and unfettered,
I’m so happy to be here again.