Aie! Aie! This Easter my rising
‘Aie! Aie! This Easter my rising'. Gouache on Arches Vellin Noir 1990s. My own words written about a visit to Barcelona at Easter, my first ever visit to Spain and contact with its culture and religious festivals.
Aie! Aie! This Easter my rising and your Trinity Rublev walks
Your ruddy Christ, the harlequin, the go-between dressed in living greens,
they are coming down the street of the gateway of the Angels. I am running to meet them,
far from the monastery and yet not far we link arms through the Easter cities of Sitges, Barcelona and Tarragona. And there, as in every place, cellar or garden,
since I put on and off the black hood of death and desert
my mouth is full of your nesperos,
my skin aquiver with falling orange blossom,
my nose burnt by dust and blood.
‘Aie! Aie! This Easter my rising'. Gouache on Arches Vellin Noir 1990s. My own words written about a visit to Barcelona at Easter, my first ever visit to Spain and contact with its culture and religious festivals.
Aie! Aie! This Easter my rising and your Trinity Rublev walks
Your ruddy Christ, the harlequin, the go-between dressed in living greens,
they are coming down the street of the gateway of the Angels. I am running to meet them,
far from the monastery and yet not far we link arms through the Easter cities of Sitges, Barcelona and Tarragona. And there, as in every place, cellar or garden,
since I put on and off the black hood of death and desert
my mouth is full of your nesperos,
my skin aquiver with falling orange blossom,
my nose burnt by dust and blood.
‘Aie! Aie! This Easter my rising'. Gouache on Arches Vellin Noir 1990s. My own words written about a visit to Barcelona at Easter, my first ever visit to Spain and contact with its culture and religious festivals.
Aie! Aie! This Easter my rising and your Trinity Rublev walks
Your ruddy Christ, the harlequin, the go-between dressed in living greens,
they are coming down the street of the gateway of the Angels. I am running to meet them,
far from the monastery and yet not far we link arms through the Easter cities of Sitges, Barcelona and Tarragona. And there, as in every place, cellar or garden,
since I put on and off the black hood of death and desert
my mouth is full of your nesperos,
my skin aquiver with falling orange blossom,
my nose burnt by dust and blood.