I see the
sculpture of the cross; I see it attached to three leveled
housing architecture; at the top most level is the sculpture of
ST. George slaying the Lucifer called his dragon of glee, from a
horse with a spear thrusting deep into the dragon's heart through
his hide; the dragon is bleeding.
At next level
of the architectural - house, I see a bleeding virgin, crying
with tears, holding an infant whom she has given birth to.
At the bottom ,
I see a Italian Renaissance, as a European Caucasian, with crown
of thorns, and the globe beside his feet.
Is he real? Is
he personified with doctrinal cannons of the Charlemagne Church
who wanted to spread Christianity to the mass, who wanted the
real Christ, the resurrected one, the Holy Spirit?
I watch this
architecture being repainted, redone so that the faith of belief
can be kept on; so that, there are a few souls, who light candles
and think that their knelt -down postures have offered some
solace to Christ.
I am watching
the same architecture being repainted, redone with patches of
cement, being re-sponsored by business houses, thinking they are
getting favors from God on high.
never grow old.I have; I have less hairs on my head; I am more
muscular now,, thanks to a gym for the proletarian; I look so
mature that women refuse to look at me; how ever, the statue is
kept alive, as the new, as the repainted, as the iconography of
Christianity; I see many lie down, many bow, many light candles
and wake up thinking that their prayers have been
I grin with my
age …I grin with a compassion, that I have found Christ, an
awesome contradiction, of belief, faith and worship, of the
foundation, of liberation, no longer needing the refuge, worship,
kowtowing of kneeling , before iconography or of hierarchy -the
church in its physical form