The morning precipitates noctiphobic emotions
into the Mediterranean sea,
the sky is a turbid wound bandaged with clouds
bleeding grey birds over Madonna's Cave
I shed the naive wings at the entrance
and put them back on when I leave
La Virgen de la Cueva

At noon, the rain drenches us
while climbing up the hill to the monastery
besieged by almond buds, remember Christine...
In the art gallery, we discover Magritte's allegories
in a stained glass featuring fragments of lilies
spilled from the Elysian Fields

The evening rattles the olive trees
ay, tiembla la tierra
the harvest falls in the nets on the ground
and miracles rustle plausibly through the gardens

And if Madonna turns her eyes away from us
we will bury every tear under
thirty silver olives

Poem published in Sage of Conciousness E-Zine ( http://www.ez6.sageofcon.com/poe/ls2.htm )