No Resonance

They were discussing the Pietá of Michelangelo,
And the dance and the violence of Christ's resurrection,
And the power and the glory of the art for subject's sake.

I sat among them, my head bowed, my eyes on my hands,
My silence all the tribute that I could pay to this story,
Which for me has no resonance and never has had.

I was not reared in the shadow of the cross, and never 
Before had I felt the loneliness from the deep cool shade
Of the death-tree so keenly as I heard them speak so.

As she who attends the funeral of a complete stranger,
In a village known for its antique unknowable customs,
I was compelled to keep silence and try to respect them.

But in me was still a wonder, and that as keen as theirs:
That they could believe, and I feel nothing at all;
That they could see great work where I saw cool stone.