They all were gods, though none of them were wise
At times their feet would bleed on frozen trails
Religion never taught them to despise
The hollow sound of prophets’ empty tales
The works they sowed in faith all yielded crops
The fruit was often sweet, attracting flies
A movement is a thing that never stops
Salvation is a man who never dies
I watch them all, unsure of how I feel
I watch them live and die in ecstasy
I watch them curse the ground on which they kneel
And bless themselves with dusty sanctity
And as the vision of the saints drifts past
I find a way to let it go at last