Here I laughed with the son
of the ferryman at the people
who don't believe in miracles
we had a beer and he pointed

me the way in the maze
of ditches and country roads
the windmills in the distance
beckoned me, but I was afraid

of getting lost and I longed
for a good bed
before I would kneel
in the Holy Site

Now it's a dead affair here
a miracle of nature
ivy overgrows the ground
the trees and the tombstones

but there are no roots growing
between the bones in the pit
on which I stand, only fungi
that have been living for centuries

There is no longer a ferry