…………From The Jew of Malta, by Christopher Marlowe
They found the last one –
up in the bell tower
hung like the crucifix on a rosary,
a candle snuffed at her feet
a bell rope tied round her neck.
Her weight, pendulum-like;
moving the bell clapper –
metal grinding metal,
resonating hum of notes dropping away
– fragments, like questions.
She hung –
trying to chime the call for mass –
for evening vespers.
But the bells defied her –
taking on voices – singing out –
breakaway Broadway hits.
No longer restrained in dogma.
The bells all sound sweeter, now the last Nun is Dead.