Beneath the church at Radu Vodă
are thousands,
*
perhaps tens of thousands,
of squares of paper
*
seen through
semi-opaque panels in the floor.
*
The faithful file in every day, all day,
queuing to venerate the relics
*
of Saint Nektarios, or to read
their Akathists on bended knees.
*
Only a thin space separates silence
from murmured prayers and confessions.
*
The fragrance of heaven lingers,
hanging like clouds in the nave.
*
A shelf along the north wall
holds two small boxes,
*
some pencils,
stacks of paper
*
cut into squares.
The boxes are labeled
*
“Vii” and “Morti”.
Petitioners print names
*
onto the papers,
drop them into the boxes,
*
either “Vii” or “Morti”,
where they await the monks
*
who will remove them,
to commemorate the souls
*
whose names they read
as they pray the cycle of the day.
*
From there, the papers make their way
beneath the floor,
*
to absorb the scent of incense
and the tears of supplication,
*
offered in love
by those standing above
*
in the Radu Vodă Monastery.
About the Creator
Randy Baker
Poet, author, essayist.
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Hands
The blue veins criss-crossed the backs of his hands like roadways on a topographic map, showing where his life had taken him. The opposite sides, calloused and strong like a vice, rivaled a grizzly bear’s. At least that’s what I imagined when I was young, looking at those hands, wondering if mine might ever look so scarred and weathered. Those were the hands of a hard man, a hard life. Mine rarely do anything more strenuous than striking the letters on a keyboard. His were gentle only when resting on my shoulder or giving my hair a tousle.
By Randy Baker5 months ago in Poets
Comments (2)
I love this, Randy. Beautiful!
simply brilliant.