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Your climbing gaze at the towering wall
Lifting the majestic stained-glass window
Is pulled-- gently so-- to the center hall
By a group of boys-- a perfect trio--
Straight center, in soiled shirts and ripped jeans,
Caressing the curves of their instruments,
Blistered fingers plucking delicate strings
Within their forefathers' walls of stone and cement.
Stunned, you bow your head and think of one wish:
To run out the building, on back to the hotel,
Thinking not of each saint in each tiny niche--
Stoic and straight in his robe and lapel--
But the frowns and scowls, the smiles and dimples:
Your mother and father, brothers and sisters.
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