Sitting in America, a quaint little mission church
built by the Jesuits of England, long ago.
Serene, quiet, gentle whispers cross the wind
speaking of Father Kino and much later the
Franciscans.
Teaching Catholicism to Indians, helping them to
plant and tend it for food so they could make it
through cold winters and long hot summers in the
desert.
A unique glimpse of the past as it now falls into
ruins before us.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem