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Nov 152012
 

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.