What fine dreams


The medium guards the oracle jealous
Perhaps an impression he'd like to give
Things we'll never know the most prestigious
Substance untouchable how persuasive
The silence seeps still through the inner gourd
And the hourglass of a peace most furtive

By the softest silk he will not be lured
Deaf he does not hear nor mute does he speak
To those waiting in a line to be cured
About forms and the texture of that they seek
The weight shifts towards the part most tender
The load may yet belong to the most meek

Counsel the heart of the moneylender
For the way he knows how to place value
On what is done with it by the spender
Lest he deprecates too what he once knew
Of the domain built on the routes of trade
Where salt was exchanged for a pretty shoe

Orange and gold guards at the promenade
Wear Spanish armour pleasing the senses
Of pilgrim souls who break the barricade
The end of a walk made in sequences
Wherein demands are made for quick answers
About light, dark and the meaning of fences

The silver chalice of communion, sirs,
Is the thing that blesses the beholder
With the holy eucharist the mind blurs
And the heart relaxes for a breather
The forgiveness from the inquisition
On the special day cold in December

As the angel leaves the annunciation
To the ground an iron ring template falls
In the fabbro's flagrant imagination
On the snow covered field out of the walls
O what fine dreams will the blue skies have made
If one may be born again as freedom calls

Roma 14 4 2007