Hommage a Mompou

The last of the great bells peals through country air
heralding a passage from death to birth, apple happy
and free of fear, the laborers turn once again to their
toils and smile at the impatience of the young.

Blood of sisters and brothers irrigated these hills and
fields where dusty feet sprang up and followed paths
away from harm. Echoes of plain chant sculpted by
intervals of no sound at all, created a silent music in
which to hear so clearly that which could not be spoken
– for which there were no words.

Away in safety on a street by a river after fading chimes
from the cathedral were embedded in the noctural
tapestry, gravity returns all to stillness. The street
cleaners with their long brooms provide only a
temporary counterpoint to the hush.