Cupping a fistful sand in your hands
At first, you would think it`s a nebulous dream Seeing among the dark minute grains
Spirits of fire elusive in the slant of light
Until you weld desire with the thought of
A rose window in some remote
Gothic shrine on the way to Compostela
And the flood of shredded sun Filtering through sand-shards reveals An alluring disguise in metamorphosis.