The Slovenian Bell Ringer

We rang the bells near dawn 
to cue the sunrise,
and the women wept
wailed, donned black for thinking
someone had died. The sun came, haloed its light

on the sounds, and echoes admired themselves
reflecting off the wet grass and distant
crags. Men kept the children
from the belfries, so they pounded sheet metal,
grenade shrapnel, measured out water in
glass bottles to make
various sounds, beat the earth
with scythes and pickaxes
to keep time. It was then
we knew it would crumble, as the bricks
loosened and bells cracked with the hammers’
relentless strikes. We, embracing, fled to the hills
to watch at a distance. From there we saw it,
like giant shining flower bulbs,
like magnificent beasts shot down:
hundreds of bells wheeled away
to toss in the furnace then
flatten, their melted remains
fashioned to bronze cannons.