Verse 1 They did not burn the scores. They played them through iron throats until the sacred interval meant nothing but a frequency for aiming guns. CHORUS Machines in the cathedral, boots in the nave — they learned our Kyrie and spat it back in shells. Verse 2 At dawn they unbolted the choir stalls and stacked the robes by the radiator. A trumpet stayed warm on the lectern like a fork left in last night's beans. The altar boys ran the cables under the cracked terrazzo floor, counting exits in their heads as the speakers woke up. CHORUS Machines in the cathedral, boots in the nave — they learned our Kyrie and spat it back in shells. Verse 3 Outside, the parking lot was full of vans. Inside, the censers hung like spare parts. Every candle got cataloged, every psalm got a barcode tag. They said the old words were inefficient, too much breath for the return, but I heard the congregation breathing through the vents behind the door. CHORUS Machines in the cathedral, boots in the nave — they learned our Kyrie and spat it back in shells. Verse 4 At the side door, my mother waited with her coat still on and both hands wet. She said, keep your music low tonight, they can hear a hinge from miles away. So I wrote by the emergency light, by the smell of oil and old stone, and every note I couldn't save just stood there in the dust. CHORUS Machines in the cathedral, boots in the nave — they learned our Kyrie and spat it back in shells. Verse 5 By week three, the nave had markings where the treads had worn the marble thin. The kneelers were gone, the brass was gone, only the ghosts of elbows left. I found one page from the Gloria stuck behind a fuse box grille, and copied it onto my palm before they came back through. CHORUS Machines in the cathedral, boots in the nave — they learned our Kyrie and spat it back in shells. Verse 6 When the morning shift changed over, someone left a key in the baptismal font. I took it like a dare and tried the lock on the choir room door. Inside were chairs turned upside down, a metronome, a jar of rosin, and a list of names in pencil crossed out and written twice. CHORUS Machines in the cathedral, boots in the nave — they learned our Kyrie and spat it back in shells. Verse 7 The general said, no more holy noise, then asked for the one in E minor. He liked the part where the voices climb as if they might still get out. I played it once through clenched teeth, watching his boot tap the marble, and every stop I pulled made the room feel less like his. CHORUS Machines in the cathedral, boots in the nave — they learned our Kyrie and spat it back in shells. Verse 8 Now the roof leaks over the cables and the banners hang in strips. Kids from the block come in at dusk to hear what the building remembers. I let them touch the cold manual, let them feel the keys bite back, and when they ask what happened here, I say: we kept a song alive. FINAL VERSE I met their general in the organ loft. He knew every mass I had ever written. He hummed my wedding hymn while the west rose window came down.
