From the rooftops of Gaudi's Cathedral saints, please, bless me, for my heart pulls south
No prayer can save me now, no such word strong enough.
I do not know what has gotten to me or what brought me here tonight,
I've got nothing to give you but my heart and the thoughts I claim as mine.
And now that image is no longer, a figure forms naturally.
When you stand besides all the nonsense, then what would you really be to me:
a portrait of a goddess, or an angel to purge my hurt,
or the closest thing to perfect in a less than a perfect world
[On the road from Madrid to Murcia, on the last minute of the last hour of May 29th 1995]
