Small Bells, My Monsignor, That In The Time Poem by Emmanuel George Cefai

Small bells, my Monsignor, that in the Time
Of the Waning Day,
That in the Time of the Pining Day,
From the small chapel top, there,
Lost in the country-side and plain
Amidst the zigzag of country roads
Wandering hither and thither
By chance into each other reciprocal
The better to blind the traveler:
Confusion will you say?
Utter, small bells, those notes wild
That I heard yesterday at vesper as
The red dusk fell into the sea
Accompanying the previous Sun
That dipped:
Small bells, arise on magic nights
On spells of witches on brooms flying
Violet lights, transforming continually
Quantum physics, patches of the tiny
Amidst those immense plains of desert hope:
And in that night of cold and winter storm
Far, far away hidden in a cave shivering
Lay half-hidden the fair Dawn awaiting.