In the Church's heavy stones I lay my head against it: all the lost swills gather like spit in my mouth when I hear the chant of mass from within.
But now, again, when I will be in Algeria and the call for prayer will start the bats into the sunset above the sea, it is there again, on my surface.
But in Spain I trace Jesus' fate through the stations of the cross tangled in carnations. I trace the old worn places in the stone and feel home for a moment.
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