The twin breakwaters of Grand Harbour embrace me like the arms of a final lover.
I feel the pulse of Valletta snuggled at my back, breathing softly in my ear.
He speaks to me, this city built by gentlemen for gentlemen,
this city of straight masculine lines and defensive bastions,
this city of baroque excess.
I am the soft, rounded shapes of the goddess temples,
more ancient than the knights' city,
trampled by the knights' religion,
reborn in Valletta chapels as virgin mother and martyred saint.
Yet his soft breathing enchants me and his encircling arms merge with my own arms.
Red and green candles flicker in my hands,
guiding ships to the safe harbour that has become my own haven.
No comments:
Post a Comment