Cathedral

Roman scene, some hundred years ago:
in the shadow of cathedrals
looming grey of the morning.
Til the dawn’s coming.

Towers are built one after the other. Showing
off to each other, boasting. Here he lives,
no, but he lives here. Though
Jesus of Nazareth said a long time ago,
that he doesn’t live in man made buildings.

In favour of the saint goal
the nation suffers.
Can the goal sanctify
ungodly tools?

It has a smell of perspiration, though
it could be the Basilica,
the word of the Eternal is put
on index lively.

The ones who want to wash
their sins, the ones who pilgrimages to Rome,
hurting their knees,
seeking relief
trail their cross,
the later canonized ones.

They believed: every road goes to Rome.
It’s a weak pretence.
But I ask:
if you are in Rome,
every road goes out of Rome, doesn’t it?