Real church, real fire

A flaming pyre ignites the sky, burning the witches and evil spirits that have resided there for eight hundred years. In the streets the people cry, why, why, No ones knows but its news travels world wide. Why, why. A church only known outside its country because it was in a fairy tale. One where a deformed child falls in love with a gypsy girl, helps kidnap her then watches her get executed. Now it burns, expelling the demons that have haunted its altar, Its sacrum, Its people, its spire.

Across the globe meanwhile, another church has a demolition waiting for it. Its altar not fancy but practical. Its connection to the creation has been forgotten by those who prayer at altars carved from rock. Its followers pagans who worship life. Its floor, made of dirt, turns to mud as the blood of life spills upon it in a tradition older than us. It stories the lives of the children brought into the world inside its womb. It sits there waiting to be used again. But it must step aside. Why?

The genocidal deamons born of the incestuous minds of a blood thirsty desert tribe have set their sights on its destruction. Their dream is a shorter ride. Their mechanised beasts grow so thirsty they will destroy all the earth to sate them. To alleviate the strain the worshipers of a tree must step aside. The people of the land, whose ancestors were born in the roots of that tree can only protest the mindless destruction. They Point to the sun, the earth, the rain in the sky. They say this is what we worship, not a dead man on a cross. Not some prophet used as excuse for profit. The Christians however scoff at it, Pagan lies they surmise.

Meanwhile back in France, a country fights tooth and nail over a petrol tax hike. Men and women are beaten by police in the streets. The fighting subsides while their cathedral is afire, the millionaires donate money to fix the roof, the poor still starve on the streets. There are no trees old enough left in all of France to return it to its original glory, none were left to live long enough to grow to the right height. Steel may be needed to fix the roof, causing more fights.

Back in australia the fight for a church, a cathedral of birth, delays a new road. Its defenders say here is the line, turn back your road, turn back your time. There is life still left on this planet it is not yours to mine. We have lost the connection to a gentler time, a peaceful time, a dream time. One where people lived for the sun to shine. why must a tree be taken. It is here to celebrate life. It is life. Here in my little universe I cry why, why.