They told me you'd be there
In the center of all that was holy
And artfully draw, where pillars and paintings,
Brought forth by masters and faithful
Reproducers, pay homage to your astute and ultimate
Magnificence. So I walked the circle, gazing
At the elaborate plasters of sad saints, stopping
At each station of that magnanimous Cross:
Here Simon looks reluctant, there Veronica
Weeps, and in all the fabulously vivid vistas, imprinted
On every stone and wooden face,
The Savior, keeling under the weight
Of mankind's sin.
I walked round and round
Until I had virtually memorized
Every dust-crusted whorl in the long-dried brushstrokes
And counted the baroque curls on each of the carvings.
Oh, your face, in countless angles, lined the rotunda
But it was only when I stepped out of the shadow
Protecting the artpieces wrought of your greatness,
Into the dazzling circle of the midday sun,
That I observed the brilliant leaves of the trees
Upturned to the sky, and found, in their translucent
Greenness, a fragment of solace.
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