Virgil's Hand

Poem By Francesc Parcerisas

The battle's slow and sinuous,
a stormy fire on the hilltops.
The enemy's spears and darts
have decimated,
at such a snail's pace,
our once-protecting parents,
that, almost unawares, we're caught,
wordless, shield-less, in the blazing
tumult of the frontline.
Up till now, Virgil's hand.
From this day forward,
the world will be utterly different:
we'll combat the fire
totally on our own.
Guideless, spurred by a secret
quest for common sense,
perhaps, in the long run, we'll realize
the ramparts,
the enemy, the war itself,
are trumped-up shadows
of a fire that's merely
light and ash;
we'll realize: purgatory
and paradise are located
within us.

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Rather like the resting hand
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hushing the earth that fails to realize
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The Egyptian Room

I sit in the Egyptian room in the museum
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