Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Wonderful Spaniard.

I have washed myself in the fountain of a king.
it was there under the lime trees, where I waited for you,
I meditated in the water for you
twisted columns led to twisted stone faces, a golden
ceiling, hand-made forms of disciples.
you never came
I asked a guard when you may find me,
and the room shrugged, the way that people do when
they´ve lost all interests.
forty meter shafts leading the eye up to stainglass
reflections on a window pain
overlaying the lime trees. reminding me
of the sacred beginning, when all was not as it is now.
I ask again when will she find me?
in the blue light, when will we stand?

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