Sagrada Familia
In Barcelona,
God drank sangria
from a red chalice
and said nothing:
He simply looked at the city
as at a gentle animal
that does not yet know it will be loved.
He dreamed of a cathedral growing on its own,
with the ambition of a stubborn tree
that found a crack in the asphalt
and said, “yes, this will do.”
That is how the Sagrada Familia was born:
not a miracle,
but a work in which the stone
searches for its own breathing.
Gaudí mixed the bones of saints with sand,
but honestly, he no longer knew
whether the saints had truly been saints
or just people
who loved too fiercely.
His shadow kept digging at the foundations
with the patience of an old dog.
When the tram struck him down,
the sky had no reaction:
it was opening another story
in another corner of the world.
Such is the sky: it works on multiple windows.
The towers then grew on their own,
like unresolved phrases
you no longer have anyone to send to,
so you let them go wherever they wish.
“Who are You, Lord?”
“The architect who became stone,”
He said,
with a voice that carried the weariness
of a long day.
In the stained glass,
the color of blood prays:
not for salvation,
but for a moment of meaning.
Pigeons carry on their wings
the dust of an idea
no one remembers anymore.
Barcelona understood then
that faith is not about endings,
but about what you fail to finish
and keep working on, anyway.
Under the dome,
silence smells of chrism
mixed with lost footsteps.
Everyone enters with their own burden
and leaves with the same one,
yet a little warmer.
When you pass by the church,
you hear a murmur,
like a voice that wishes to disturb no one:
“Gaudí, I am still working on you.”
And at sunset, the stone breathes
like a man who understood too late
what he should have said,
and still tries, once more,
to mend the dream
of the One who dreamed him.
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