O my love, pardon my love on the ground.
Saint
Eulalia, wreathed by winter’s shroud,
from
your mouth flew doves, as spirit from cloud,
lamentations
kind, your cross on this mound—
O
my love, pardon my love crucified
by
Roman hook, the wound upon your breast,
when
refusing worship, offering-less
to
pagan gods, now beaten in a sign.
O
arms outstretched, pardon my evil hurt,
that
you may rest observed, diametric
with
burning hair below pillar’s marble,
and
suffocating altar incense’s spurt,
smoke,
trailing toward their heaven, rejected
in
their sin as at the Fall and startled.
—W.E Isaacson
