Altars, Columns and the Virgin, Spain
Marble, carvings, soaring ceilings. Light, shadow, sacred statues. The Virgin and Child. Columns and candles. Hand-painted walls. The Virgin and Wounded Savior.
Sight drawn upward, through, inward. The soul rushed by glory and magnitude.
What hands toiled? Whose backs stooped? Which minds envisioned, planned, ordered? Are the names scrawled somewhere in secret? Did I touch them with my feet, my eyes, unawares? Can I thank those who brought joys and sorrows, a bag of bread to sustain their day, artistry to last through the years? Will they hear me now... gasping awe?