Saturday Sonnet: Little Proverb

If there’s a name for you, it is pronounced
In whispers, in a tongue we speak no more;
A tongue that’s only used to write the lore
Of sacred things, and books of past accounts.
And if there is a church for you, that church
Becomes my heart; there is no space in there
For anything but silence and the air,
In gentle respiration, by your torch.
Is there a name for me?... A name that’s not
Synonymous with the unsculpted shades
Thrown by the low cypress once sought by Lot,
Till brushed away by sunlight in the glades?
Will some honour my church someday, the spot
Where part by part my mind's light fresco fades?...