Looking at and listening to the wonderful torchlit procession up The Ghammar Hill this week, I could not but wonder whether the tuneful pilgrims were aware of what happens there the rest of the year and whether they would be as shocked and saddened as I have been by the neglect. “The Way of the Cross

This is the path of the Stations of the Cross

A steep pitted track that staggers up the hillside

With rubble and boulders to catch the unwary.

The statues that were once the pride of Frenc tal-Gharb

Are now desolate and saddened by neglect and stupidity.

Some stood in the way of “a perfect shot at that buzzard”

And others were shot at for harbouring sparrows.

What good is the Blessing from a hand raised with no fingers?

Frenc had hoped that the Path would be a way to renewal

A setting where piety and effort would reach for the stars.

All that’s left of that dream lies abandoned and tragic

A place that is sordid and speaks of decay.

Yet as you stand on the top and gaze all around you

The view tantalizes with a feel of the hope that once flourished.

Three hundred and sixty degrees of untrammelled vista

A panorama made to show of our Island with pride.

Ignoring the crumbling auditorium and statues

Perhaps we could look forward instead of behind us

Pin our hopes of renewal on the dream that inspired Frenc

And see beyond the present iniquity of man’s shameful reality.”

Jill Goulston, Gozo.

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