In the afternoon
It arrives
The darkness
Of the believers
In the cross
In his Holiness
The black crows of the church
On the streets
Spreading their psalms
As victims of diseases
The silence
Every day in the afternoon
Their preaching of their book
And their holy clock
Tick, tock, Tick, tock
Devoutness and purity
The mirth gone
The flowers withering away
The grey, only the grey
Every day in the afternoon
It’s Sunday
Bed of Feathers 