To the sky the burden of the worldand the angels, the saints
and the blasphemous demons hold it up.
The azure decorations seem to
tickle the air whistling
through the rose window.
Don't touch the stone
which crumbles, a stone
which suffers from incomprehension,
yellow as jaundice now:
it is probably afraid of forms
without substance.
And inside the white altars
full of gold and lights,
sparkling from the crosses;
as you close your eyes
rays assail and dazzle you
with a mystical charm.
Yes, here the silence is the harmony
of contraries
where the choirs of angels
meet packs of demons;
it is the night of the soul
alone with itself;
it is the eternal struggle
between good and evil;
the air and the earth
mixing together
as in stormy days;
it is a continuous torment
of the stone which captures
angelic contemplation
and infernal passion.
