An overflow of beauty
And grotesque,
Their cities, roads, and inns
And dome of stars and moon
Above the Mancha plain,
What urn can know
The ancient, human space
Which they,
The Don and Sancho,
They themselves contain.
We jailed them in the nave,
And crowned their maker
Christ of Spain.
We made the jewel lights
Suffuse and soften
Their raw edges.
Two statues
Rivetted in stone,
They mock and shadow
Our dichotomies
And pain.
The ashes of their energies
In urns below.
Old countries
Fill the eyes and mouths
Of fools
With dust.
An overflow of beauty
And grotesque,
The Don and Sancho grow,
Thrust upward,
Inward , into galaxies.
Zenoesque,
They leave and roam
But do not leave and roam
Along the circling arc
Toward home.
Max Cordonnier