FESTIVAL PILGRIMS
By Mellisa Lombardo
No longer Sunday mass, Sunday best,
arc of voices rising in words of praise.
Now is the age of the pilgrimage
in black jeans and band t-shirts.
Walking across asphalt to gates
not pearly white, but security guarded.
We receive our wristbands marking us
as the chosen, the 144 000.
Not seated in pews but standing on grass
heads not bowed in subservience but raised to the stage.
That we may sing not of God, but join our voices with theirs.
Here, Genesis and Revelation in a single line
shouting in unison among strangers.
Here, from greatest heights of speakers and computer screens
the Gods are mortal and walk amongst us.
We give thanks not by sacrifice, but by our very presence
singing their sacred words with all the fervour in our hearts.
Here, no penance for past sins,
only insouciance under a bright summer sun.
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