The Russian crucifix hangs on the museum wall,
glittering gold in the tiny white spotlight.
There is a history to this icon, you are sure,
a story of magnificence and abandonment,
ending here in these walls,
no longer an accouterment of worship,
it becomes something else, a relic, a curiosity,
A wonderment bereft of wonder,
a thing out of place
for all but a few pilgrims.
Those few linger and wait
for the magic made weak by a world lost,
full of wars large and small.
Bitter backbiting has replaced grace.
Opinion replaces facts and beat them into submission
with nobby clubs,
and nothing replaces the broken souls
yearning for peace,
the very thing moved from the big bright world
waiting to be found.