by Keith Moul
No ceremony abets the spires;
they must stand on their own history.
A few minutes the bells are quiet;
their peal rumbles in the hills, however.
A wedding earlier has ended; white rose petals
trail on the breeze marking its dispersion.
No decorative crepe on the last tree
in the square; no crowds shuffle through the door
into the cool shade of the sanctuary.
For tourists like me, entry here is pedestrian only.
I consider the multiple meanings of the word:
depart on foot, observe this mundane life
circumscribed by eternal redundancy,
carry away with me buyer’s Spanish, amigo.
Claim whatever beliefs you wish,
admire the Moorish arches, do not fear
an unforgotten burden of inquisition.