the plaza in the village where mission bells used to ring is now crumbled to a pile of stench and ruin even the swallows have vanished no longer return every spring all the blossoms are buried neath the waste out of the shadows grow hatred along the corridor crawls fear crushed by the promise of hope that never returned watched with a hawk s trained eye the trees grow silent fruit neath a suffering sky those who have stayed keep a flame in memory of the fallen and pass on the old rites despite the risk but many more have left here on mended broken wings turn to see your reaction a tear drop fills your eye but you protest not to give up or give in heading straight for the wreckage picking up a shovel and a hoe start putting back the bricks one by one numbers come out of the woodwork curious to see the rebirth above the swollen clouds a strange sound fills the air a silence never heard falling like blessed rain and the swallows return as the mission bells ring