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February 24, 2006
latin quarter
the spanish candles
wicks unlit
gather moss in the chamberpot
crossing themselves
in front of cathedrals
built by their conquerors
who have long gone
leaving them
to their mixed blood
their arrested progress
the legacy of culture
they can never match
thousands of years
and the ruins still stand
mocking them
mocking us all
for my people too
are just mice in the turnstile
praying to a plaster fairytale
when it is necessary
or when reality
supplies them with there mortality
they turn to him
open their hearts
so desperate
to him
because what is death
if one cannot come through it
unscathed
these daytrippers
part time volunteers
in the houses of the holy
need an afterlife
but I only need
what is front of me
my eyes see clearly
I hear the discrepancies
they put blinders to
crossing themselves
in front of the cathedral
on the way
to the daily thieveries
they commit
in their shops
a framed print
of the sacred heart
overlooking the tables
in the restaurants
where menus with no prices
await their victims
all those holy souls
both here
and abroad
can have the clouds
they covet and invent
to themselves
as I shun them in this world
I certainly have no desire
to see them
anywhere else
the world
is a tragic comedy
a setting
for delusions
more than miracles
and among the disorder
the confusion
sometimes there is a window
a doorway
a place outside the area
we fashion our lives
some need shutters
other deaden the bolt
but I
I step outside
while the light
is still young
and the truth
while so cold
is none the less
reality
Posted by Drexler at February 24, 2006 08:47 AM