Merchants line the streets,
selling miracles for 100 francs.
Discarded crutches hang
in the grotto, testaments to foolishness.

A siege of wheelchairs sway
my distrust toward compassion,
but this absolute faith feeds my contempt.
With the setting sun, I ready to leave.

Yet, I halt. For upon twilight,
thousands of pilgrims croon dizzying
waves of Ave Maria, a lit candle for
each voice, my cold heart weeps.

Then I grasp the miracle;
the sheer power of pure hope.