Our saints are ragged, like this world we walk upon.
Our saints are broken, like the hearts that venerate them.
Our saints are fleeting, like the memories that fade.
Our saints are eternal, like the art they create.
Our saints are ours, like the culture those others try to steal.
Our saints belong to us, we who share their wounds, their hopes, their hurts, their dreams and schemes.
Their stigmata, bullet wounds and needle marks, are holy to us.
In their crucifixions, we see our own.
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