When peoples build temples, are they ever meant for someone other than themselves?
Modernism is relentless –
It sweeps the ages through the cracks
And resurrects the specters that were never dead,
But forgotten for good reason.
It implies a line –
A line at gunpoint drawn.
These early days of spring
The sun starts seeping in not yet with vigor,
But with cautious gleam.
And palm trees, rooftops,
Margaritas lighten up –
A crown of gold not for a king,
But neither for his lowest man.
The city opens up like flower petals
Or legs enthralled in lust,
While lone guitars are calling through the alleyways
To the cardboard moon above.
All the while, he is tired:
Old and worn, so weak, forlorn,
Like a statue eroded by waves.
The prayers they utter are none that he hears,
Have been none for too long.
Their new gods hold their places –
Mró, Picasso and Franco, Ronaldo –
Again and again, that old place of his own,
Though the tide pulls unabatedly strong.
Step through the doorway,
Say hi and be seated.
Step away from the light to perpetual shadow
And forget that the year is awaking outdoors.
Then maybe you’ll see him, staring dimly into the abyss
Of his glass of ice-cold white wine.