Aix-la-Chapelle

Your Highness,
I sense Your presence
In the wind that touches the
Pages of  the long-lost
Sacred books.


My attention to detail
Is strong but my will
Fades into the aesthetic delirium
As I start to pray
For the reopening of the roads
And the reconciliation
Between the nations.

In this place
My soul would stay safe for a while,
But who's going to be there

If You're not around?

I sense the presence of the angels
In the sound of violins and harps,
And then I try to decipher the cryptic symbols
Of Her Majesty
Old Europe.

A striking symmetry
Of the octagon
Will get closer
To the reality
Of the bustling,
Technical,
Eternally televised society
That follows scripts.

Part of my soul
Is left
In the scriptorium.

The air is filled
With silence
And sanctity,
Frankness
And freedom,
The waters of knowledge
Are as clear
As the look of Your eyes,
Long-awaited yet distant.