A church abandoned to the wind is portent. In high wind, ruins make harsh music. The priest is tending bar. His dreams have paid outrageous fees for stone and mortar. His eyes are empty as a chapel roofless in a storm.
Greek temples seem the same as forty centuries ago.
If we used one corner for a urinal, he wouldn't swear we hadn't worshipped here. The chickens cringe. Despite the chant, salmon hadn't come. The first mass and a phone line cursed the river. If rain had rhythm, it would not be Latin.