The monk is, of course, one of the skeletons in the famous crypt under the monastery of Capuchin, Italy.

No cable television interior decorating show
Will ever make a room like this!
Bones from dead people piled up in the alcoves
Like artwork in storage between museum tours

I find a strange calm in the Capuchin ossuary
Underground work of art which celebrates life
Bones arranged in thoughtful ways
To connect with what is real
There are no lies told here
The truth is not buried out of sight
Instead I can see the end of all life
For once I have found something real

You! In the middle! Are you a guide?
Is your outstretched hand demanding a golden token from me?
Or are you not a guide to the underworld at all?
You are not Charon polling his boat across the Styx
No, you are just a monk who long since departed for the far shore
Leaving behind only a signpost of bones which points the way
I must be talking to myself down here
Because you haven't said a word in centuries
You are dead
That is your only message for those who come here
Soon I will be dead, too, and departing for those same shores
Where the dry, endless desert will finally give way
To the garden from which all people came
And to which all people want to return

Maranatha - Come quickly, Lord!