I hear her voice when the cicadas sing.
Sixty years on, I still hear her voice
rising and falling in the dark,
pulsing like summer heat.
We were praying before flickering votive flames
when the fatman came.
His voice spoke like thunder
and his mighty judgement
rolled through the chapel.
And I heard her cry.
The breakers of death rolled over us.
The roots of the mountains shook.
The earth rolled and rocked.
Blue-grey smoke rose from his nostrils.
He wraps darkness about him.
He makes the darkness bright
and burns the day into night.
His hand fell on his enemies.
He made them a fiery furnace.
His wrath has consumed them,
his shadow has swallowed them up.
When the fatman arrived
her voice became
a shadow frozen on the rubble.
See here for an excellent historical overview