Gargoyles guard an old church with drool.
The bright green paint surrenders and runs,
The silent, winter rain has begun
With rosy gusts of winds that hiss.
My face betrays no trace of this –
An infant tune, as yet unwrought
Comes riding in gusts of hissing thought.
It lurks within, as yet unsung.
But music slips like raindrops flung
Off the lips of gargoyles of stone.
Through cracks on cobbled streets it’s blown,
Up the grey steps where lamps have faces
Into the church that enjoys God’s graces.
To stand beneath collossal busts
And billow out- and up-wards in gusts
Shiver, caress painted windows of glass.
Envelop the idols that carry his name
That teach us passionate penance and shame.
Music evades all shame and vices –
It lurks in the mind, in it’s purest crevices.
It yearns the day when numb domes of stone,
Will finally cave in, beaten and blown,
By hammering drops and winds that roar.
And from the rubble of what was before
Golden arches, painted windows and dreams entombed –
Will rise, as dust, an eternal tune.