L’idéal, c’est le gout de Dieu – V. Hugo
He who knew the Veritas and Vita
was trampled on a line on Gran Via,
his pocketful of peanuts and currants
scattered like ebony rosary beads
which mingled with his bloodstains on the rails.
Five days on, Catalonia’s homage
was marked in damask and curved black ribbons
by a black hearse drawn by plumed black horses
through the capital to those capitals.
The Cornet had resounded ‘Hosanna’.
The son of a coppersmith exalted
the son of a carpenter, so that stones
cried out His deity and handiwork.
From the serpentines of bright workshop stills
came the spirals of his imagination.
His blue eyes screened the Barcelona sun
while bent in projects or in silent prayer.
Industrialists did not always like his puns.
From the Collserola hills he looked down
at his cypress towers to eternity.
His Rosita drank Aigua del Carme,
toasting the Carmelite nuns who brewed it;
seeking the Mother of God and her own.
Then he removed his faded black felt hat
and hung it up in the now empty hall.
His bed became a mason’s Bauhütte
while he carved the needles of Montserrat
into Sagrada Familia’s spires.
And when they asked when it would all be done,
he said, “My client is in no hurry”.
The Architect of the Universe smiled.