The red capitals and vermillion vaults are a soul, in sunlight, living in the old background and antique authoritarian mystery.
Yet, when the song and the naive, prismatic anthem ceases, a grief of incense evaporated stamps itself on the golden tripods and brazen altars.
And the stained glass windows, lofty with ages kneeling before Christ, with their immobile popes and martyrs and heroes, seem to tremble at the sound of a proud train passing through the town.
Formerly—there was the errant, somnambulous life, across the mornings and fabulous evening, when the right hand of God towards the blue Canaans traced the golden road in the depth of the shadows.
Formerly—there was the enormous, exasperated life, fiercely hung on the manes of stallions, suddenly, with great sparks from their hoofs, and towards immense space immensely provoked.
Formerly—there was the ardent, evocative life; the white Cross of heaven, the red Cross of hell advanced, to the splendor of iron armors, each across blood, towards his victorious heaven.
Formerly—there was the foaming livid life, alive and dead, with strokes of crime and tocsins, battle between them, of proscribers and assassins, with splendid and mad death above them.
The melancholy time has ornamented its hours like dead flowers; the passing year has yellowed its days like dry leaves. The pale dawn is seen by gloomy waters and the faces of evening have bled under the arrows of the laughing, bleeding, mysterious wind.