Dom Kirken
Laysha Collins
Amidst the rail cars, buses, bike riders,
autos and streams of people coursing
through Oslo's downtown streets,
there sits a brick church that holds more
than weekly services. Three towers topped
with oxidized copper steeples can be seen
from almost anywhere in the city. Inside, the
tapestries, exquisite, tell tales
of martyrdom. When the sun is just right
the stained glass windows turn the sanctuary
into a kaleidoscope. The massive weathered
wooden doors adorned with saintly carvings
have seen kings come and go. But most
beautiful of all is the scent of votive
candles, over one hundred fifty years worth
of wicks lit in hopes of heavenly miracles.
Intoxicating, reminiscent of blown
out birthday candles, or a Christmas Eve
fire whose embers glow 'til dawn. Each pew,
each wall, is saturated with ages of prayers
whispered over laced fingers. They can still
be heard if you sit and close your eyes.
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