Beneath the glass where lilies sleep, A steeple sighs in silence deep. Its pews are dust, its prayers undone, But still it sings… to no one. No bell has rung in fifty years, Yet every ripple weeps with tears. The altar drowned, the choir stilled, A vow remains — unfulfilled. A veil of silt, a gown of stone, She drifts, forgotten and alone. Beneath the weight of sacred sleep, She guards the oaths the water keeps. The lake remembers every name, Each candle lost, each vanished flame. The stained glass cracked, the crucifix weeps — The chapel breathes where no one sleeps. Two voices drift through brackish blue, A love submerged, yet still true. One reaches down, one reaches through, A hand, a hymn… the ancient dew. So let the chapel lie in peace, Its sorrows sunk, its murmurs cease. Yet deep below, the song awakes — Within the chapel… beneath the lake.
