They have broken up the mosaics
Of the last century, together with those
Of the previous century, and of the centuries before.
This is the way with foundations, when you
Build your bell a tower towering above
The tallest cypresses; a tower as white
As cypresses are dark; a tower
As straight as knots are inextricable:
Knots that graced mosaics that you chose to break,
Striking apart all the mosaic’s bits.
And now the tower dreams. The tower
Dreams of knots. These dreams are inextricable
Now the hour is struck. The bell tolls
In the tower for all those broken bits.
It tolls through the centuries – tolls
For Saint Peter, tolls for Attila as well.
The bell is the dream that towers above
The cypresses: a dark dream, drinking
The blood of martyrs; martyrs with
The power to break all your mosaics up.