The Poor Priest Poem by Anisa Tara
The Poor Priest
It was a quarter past five
When the church bells tolled
The old priest appeared
Down the aisles he strolled
Vacant congregations
Lined the dusty pews
The lonely priest without
His faithful few
The praise of his people
Without articulation
The priest ardently insists
This is all for a season
He awaits the postscript
To this restless plague
The return of his flock
And of their praise
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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8/2/2025 1:01:00 PM # 1.0.0
