There was a church here, now a store.
Why pray? Trade is blooming.
The charms of shop windows call
With no reminders of God anywhere.

Except perhaps among the earrings
A little cross with inlaid gold
Of the overgrown PATHS to faith
Has remained a distant memory.

Money, wealth and grandeur
Sweep everything from the path —
They deprive villages of temples,
For conscience has sold itself to sin.