.

oh mystic rose of paradise, mother of God, mirror of mercy
angled at love, beckoning upwards towards the face of her
frescoed gaze, flowing sweet like a drop of milk on his lips
from a soft-pressed breast, breathing-in his guiding star,
his Beatrice whispering "Look behind you." just in time to
witness his disappearing world and some speck of a town
better known as a place to nurse a drink forever, but in
its place all the stored magic of the universe revealed,
stirring faith by the grace of stone beauties anchored
on the shore, white matrons adorned in marble crinolines
facing the harbour in wait, returning ships and sailors to
their mothers' skirts with fully fleshed ideas, whenever
monuments to Mary match the size and importance of
her son, just like any writer who becomes equivalent
to all these unfinished thoughts