Campaign

  The bells are tolling, footsteps echo down the aisle,

  The organ swells, hosannas rise in practiced style.

  They promise grace, recite the creeds, give gifts and holy lore—

  "Be praised! God bless! A soup for lunch, and greetings at the door!"

  The vow is made: your soul shall never die,

  Just come and pray! I’ll visit every week, that’s why!

  Processions, feasts, and funerals—each sacred word you say

  Will surely tip the scales, for Christ is on His way!

  But when a blow does strike, and you'd confide in grief,

  You’ll see their hearts are hollow, cold beyond belief.

  Perhaps it’s just this flock—or just this time, you guess?

  Yet this was how you were raised: in silence and in stress.

  You think the fault is yours when guilt begins to bite,

  But godless grief turns others bitter overnight.

  Your soul feels so forsaken—yet the world begins to show,

  You don’t hate the Creator, just the ones who cim to know.

  Reality will hit you hard, the wafer chokes your breath,

  The pstic thorns of Jesus fake the crown of death.

  The organ now sounds empty, the church is stiff with frost,

  You’d dare to doubt aloud—but someone else has seen it lost.

  There once was one you trusted, someone good and brave,

  But even they were cast aside—perhaps for truth they gave.

  No kindness here, no conscience, no peace to be unfurled—

  Just money, power, loyalty: the soul has left this world.

  The saints and angels, lined up row by row,

  Are just like candidates with promises on show.

  "Give now! Eternal life awaits—so pay your solemn fee!"

  Yet all you'll truly gain is death, eternally.

  2020.01.22./2020.10.20. Budapest

  Transted from the original Hungarian by Chat GPT, author: Bérces Mihály

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