Against the molten rise
and flight and winged
weight of the church walls
The apartments buckle back
slapping FC Barcelona vests
and lingiere against turmeric brick.
The church is like something
gone extinct and then unforgotten,
a churn of stone, victim
Of accidental apocalypse. Under
a mad gaze it was trumpeted to life,
our last stand against heaven.
Inside, organs and drills unharmonise
a music in the light stone vastness
while tourists flap and pose
For photographic proof of their very
small existences: as if they will become real
in this petrified wood of belief.
Words by Raphael Kabo. Images by Angela Terrell.