The candles burn endlessly in the cathedral,
each with a name, a prayer, a life linked to it.
All day long, and even into the night,
people come, and go. They light candles.
They pray. And the candles burn.
A simple act, compassion made flame,
hardly recognized, hardly noticed. They burn
life the fire of love that underlies it all,
that ability, desire, need even, to not let others suffer alone.
Perhaps because we remember that aloneness. Perhaps
because we fear it. No matter the reason,
it rises in us, God made real
in a single act, a single word, a single touch.
About this poem
This poem is part of a larger group called 1000 Speak for Compassion. Each of a thousand bloggers (and perhaps more) are writing about compassion in their own way, hoping to start conversations and thoughts, and aim them to a more compassionate…
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