Our feet release the singing
Embedded in the clay
We hear the song in rosy dawn
Or at the end of day
The singers are no longer
This place is not their home
But their praiseful chanting
Echoes from the stones
We climb among the ruins
Sleeping in the sun
Where their voices echo
Whose race is long since run
Our feet explore the old path
To pass what was their home
Where ghostly voices sing in praise
From bones beneath the loam
The Monastery
Working Title Blogspot 
A lovely poem.
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