Clocks in Argentina

800px-Cabildo_de_Buenos_AiresClocks in Argentina

In Buenos Aires, I am perched high

on the veranda of a small coffee bar.

A majestic cathedral

towers above me still, and I crane

my neck to survey its magnificent

spires. At the top, an alcove cradles

the sculpted body of a dead Jewish king.

His head, with a jeweled crown,

hangs in surrender,

while blood pours from His wounds.

Pigeons fly to and from the sculpture.

Huge clocks

surround the alcove crucifixion.

Three are visible from my vantage

point alone. Below me, madhouse

traffic rages like the insane, final

moments of a soccer game. This city

sanctuary offers a cup of tranquility for

five minutes of my time.

I accept the invitation of respite from

the shadowed alcove. I close my eyes to imagine

the basilica—the stone, cold floor and the

glowing warmth of candles—dozens

of them. Sanctuary gold and jewels

sparkle there. A priest’s robe sways

across the room, incense fills the air, but the

candles command my attention.

They can be extinguished by a gust of

city wind, like my burden in an

amnesiac drop of blood. I wonder in awe

that I am sprung from those sculpted bloody

wounds in the shadowed alcove, and I

wonder what time it is.

©Bonnie Saul Wilks

all rights reserved

(photo credit: Wikipedia: Cabido de Buenos Aires)

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