Is there no place?

The clouds have hung for many moons
hiding the virgin sun.
The constant rain makes whores of weeds
and drowns the unwilling.

If millions of slaughtering Romans
are forgiven and accepted,
is there no place for a meandering soul
in your splendid dwellings?

I heard a voice guide me through the bleak,
but i couldn't follow.
I'll wander aimlessly in hope,
like a nomad driven by dreams.