Amelia

On the Freeway makes a right, losers drinkers and vagrants, her son falls under that sign, there's a Chapel below, behind where cruise ships lie, many of them call it home, her mind racing and alight, to reach that cool oasis, far from the City's cry, she eyes the cool clothes, women who dance like wraiths, sun aglisten on their robes, at the end of terrible nights, still as time she meditates, he asks her if he'll die, , the valley bears holy stone, monastery wall's sweet glaze, a candle she carries alone, parays to an ancient flame.