The last breath of light
when the night comes
frightening us
and gathering its ghosts.
The corners project
on the baroque walls
shadows which penetrate the skin,
and tortuous doubts
torment the soul
like androgynous angels.
God is. He is in that
winding, upward longing
of the columns, in the faces
of the papier-mâché saints,
beetwen heaven and earth,
in the angelic cherubs
dancing on the altars,
illuminated with
hieratical flashes
by the moon, our roaming sister.
The stone is living flesh:
inside, the blood of the past
centuries flows
and here the memory
of our forefathers
at night gives life to it.
The last breath of light
