We press our foreheads
onto dimpled marble,
the same as ten million

pilgrims past.

We share a vision.
Rain falls
and faith rises.

We kneel beneath prophets
and gargoyles;
a granite edifice,
baroque belltowers.

There is no downpour

of starlight,
no luminosity of tears,
but rather a discreet presence.

We are received
and we receive.

At the Door of Glory
we genuflect
and whisper yes.