Come forth ye huddled masses.

Come forth patron saint of hunchbacks and petty thieves.

Beyond mine marble arches there is warmth,

and golden rooftops to shield you 

from a rainfall that is heaven sent;

A test of faith, truly. 


The weather imparts its gift

of hands, aged and shrunken.

I watch my life pass before my eyes

and am reminded of my own mortality. 


The graves of prophets are my pavement,

I walk on them like stepping stones.

As I dip in and out of history,

how can you tell me that I am not God?


In this house,

where heaven and earth meets,

where ghosts become mortal,

paltry flesh will wither 

under the gaze of a hundred lords. 


The heavens open and

I feel the rain like tears upon my cheek. 

In this moment I realise

that even God cries sometimes. 


Lola Stansbury-Jones


Bio:  Lola is a young emerging writer originally from North Wales. She now lives in England, where she is studying creative writing. More of her work can be found at