What you imagine

There is what you imagine who exist only in your dreams. A cathedral without roof. A storm which rises. Tears of rain which wet your lips, your face. A sun which extends on the columns supporting from the sacrificed walls. There is heat, the beads of sweat, water falling from the clouds. Your steps, slow, with the stripped feet, advancing in wet grass. To go the head raised to the broken vault. To tighten the hands, to seize the sky, to join it until the end of the mirage. To see the world remembering its images. There is what you imagine who exist only in your dreams. Vis-a-vis the vacuum of the mutilated cathedral, you intend it to shout, to beg. Its burst stained glasses, its torn off stones. The tears of rain have the taste of blood. On your face they stream. In your head, they hammer. Noise of the hammers and the shovels. Arrivals to break the roof to the sky. Where one can see the world, to remember its images. There is what you imagine who exist only in your dreams. A bunch of people singing. In the heart of a cathedral to the reconstituted roof, the rehabilitated walls. To forget its cries and its tears. To let itself cherish by the rays of stained glasses to the blue-orange colors. It will be your hour. To raise you, go the feet stripped in grass wet to a locked door. There is what you imagine who exist only in your dreams. A cathedral of which you do not have the key.