Sunday, December 29, 2013

Compostela - a Poem

Mystical city and journey’s end;
Take rest, you weary holy-men.
Seek the streets that guide you in,
Where the grey-stone walls shoulder the evening,
And whispers of age call the phantom pilgrim on,
Turning softly the page of time.
All sublime, the narrow way lined by shells,
Dun and worn.
Torn, broken; the tread of humanity.
The scene where all roads lead.
Met with the turrets of heaven, mossy green,
Scraping the dusk of its lustre;
Setting sun tones in the stone,
Mustering bones that groan and break.

They are all come to celebrate, to partake,
To make way, make space,
To taste the glory of this place.
The fabled city where lies the Lesser
Set upon a facade of glory.
Calling the masses, the peel of bells.
The tolls of hearts yearning,
Burning to be filled.
Iago, the names are many, the tales are more.
Who can say for sure?
When the crowd breathes their hush of holiness and awe,
And the choir fill all
With their golden calls to winged ones.

Do they belong, these thoughts,
That so take flight in song to belie all reason?
A treason of my senses;
Through what lenses do I faithfully describe
The peace inscribed upon this place?
Of airs that leave but a taste of more to come.
Of when all is done, of when the road ends
And the friends of the way send out the call.
In the silence of it all,
Will you then recall Compostela?
That star of the field once concealed to you,
Then, so beautifully revealed;
Will you remember the night and what came to view,
Upon your way through ancient Santiago. 

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