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THE
PIETA
AND
THE DOME
OF
SAN LORENZO
I
worship all these things
or not these
things
I
worship your ideas
or not your
ideas
I
worship the light
that you
first saw
long after
it appeared
I
gaze with longing
on your fine
proportions
that are not
yours alone
the
texture of your vision
fascinates
my fugitive soul.
I
have seen the silver halo
in the night
above your head
above your
giant body
and your
being
the one of
many facets
many hues
what
marble can portray
you have
portrayed
what
passion can be found in stone
I find in
your creations.
The
night comes
the
day arrives
the
river flows
the
trees green.
I
want to know your strange joy
I
want to swim
in a sea of
your tears
for
one minute I want to live
in the
perfect mind of your Christ
I
want to know how the beautiful
sounds in
your innermost ear.
Sometimes
I remember what you said:
“I
practice no art
except
to love utterly
to trust
utterly
to feign
nothing
to hide
nothing
to pour out
everything
into my
friend’s ear
just as it
comes
from my
heart.”
I
remember your turmoil
and your
tortured possibilities
I've
seen your red robes
and your false conscience
going up in flames
I've
marvelled at your faith
and your discoveries
your
struggles and wars overwhelm me
what
you have reached for
is gentle and monstrous
the
long-buried instruments
you perform with
confound my own palette
I
want to know why the world
becomes you so well.
Paris,
Oct. 25, 1994.
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