(The Lament of the Bells)
Threnodia Campanarum
(The Lament of the Bells)
A Monastic Witness of the Last Choosing
A Chronicle of the Watchers Beneath the Stone
I. We Are the Throats of Stone
We are the throats of stone.
We are the broken lungs of the earth.
We are not rung — we are loosed.
We are not played — we are unleashed.
When we thrum, bones tremble in their graves.
When we roar, the marrow of the living shakes.
When we shudder, kings forget their names.
We thrummed for Peter when the iron pierced him.
We thrummed for Leo when words broke armies.
We thrummed for Gregory when prayer bent time itself.
We thrummed for Innocent — proud.
We thrummed for Boniface — fallen.
We thrummed in grief when Borgia tainted the altar.
We thrummed in flame for Pius’ prayers.
We thrummed in laughter when John threw open the gates.
We thrummed in wounds when John Paul walked through fire.
We have never been silent.
We are the throat of Rome’s secret heart.
II. The Swiss Guard Stands Like Statues of Blood and Stone
Beneath our hammering breath, the Swiss Guard stands,
immovable, molten in silence.
Their armor flares like dying stars.
Their halberds thrum against the ground.
Their oaths bind them tighter than iron.
They have bled for saints and knaves alike.
Today, they bleed inward,
waiting, waiting —
for either a king of crosses,
or a liar crowned in smoke.
They are the walls of a Church that remembers.
They are the last flesh before the abyss.
III. The Shivering of the Conclave
The cardinals shuffle, shadow-wrapped,
their red robes sighing like dying winds.
The ballots fall like broken wings.
The smoke spasms black — black again.
The sky clenches its fists.
We — the Bells — thrum louder.
We crack the hidden vaults of Rome with our fury.
“Choose, O blind men!”
“Choose, though the stars burn down around you!”
We feel their fear.
We taste their hopes — and their betrayals.
We thrum so hard the marble itself keens.
IV. The March of the Ghosts
The Silent Fathers rise through the mist.
Peter weeps thunder into his hands.
Leo’s voice is a blade slicing smoke.
Gregory weaves a net of prayers across the stars.
Urban’s cry rips banners from their poles.
Innocent wears his broken crown like a wound.
Boniface glares from the ashes of a shattered throne.
Alexander smiles his poisoned smile, dripping gold.
Pius burns like a small, stubborn flame.
John flings open invisible doors.
John Paul bleeds triumph into the broken stones.
They do not bless lightly.
They do not forgive easily.
They wait.
So do we.
So do the thrumming stones beneath your feet.
V. The Final Choosing
If the wrong soul rises —
we will split the sky with mourning.
We will tear the firmament from the bones of the earth.
We will hammer grief into every mountain.
The Swiss Guard will lower their blades to the stone.
The banners will sag like forgotten shrouds.
The Square will weep in colors no man has named.
But if the right soul rises —
if he bears the torn net of Peter,
the roaring word of Leo,
the stitched prayers of Gregory,
the broken crown of Innocent,
the stubborn flame of Pius,
the open hands of John —
then we will not simply sing.
We will shatter the gates of despair.
We will thunder joy into the roots of the earth.
We will hammer hope into the teeth of the coming storm.
But this —
this may be the last choosing.
The last before the mountains kneel.
The last before the rivers run backwards.
The last before the Breath that breathed Eden
comes again to shake the dust from all things.
VI. Benediction: The Bells’ Last Prayer
O Breath that once split tombs,
O Flame who crowns with thorns,
O Hand who carves names in bone —
look upon this soul, broken and chosen.
Crown him not with gold, but with silence.
Gird him not with sword, but with tears.
Burden him not with praise, but with the Cross.
Make him a whisper that outlives thrones.
Make him a wound that heals a dying world.
Make him a rock that stands when all others fall.
If he falters, strike him gently.
If he falls, lift him unseen.
If he stands —
let the Bells scream your glory through every broken gate of earth.
Let him be the last Shepherd
if the world must now be broken open.
Amen.
Sit campanarum vox testis fidei.
Sit sonus earum clavis caelorum.
Sit silentium eorum signum finis.
Exaudita sunt Campanae.
Scriptum per Marguerite Grace.
verse, possies, sonnets, and short stories 