This poem describes the elaborate fountains and gardens of Villa d'Este in Italy. [1] The fountains were created based on one man's vision and explode with water carved into shapes of lions, angels, and virgins. [2] Fish swim through the intricate system of fountains and pools as the water channels from terrace to terrace. [3] The author wonders if the creator of the gardens planned for the water to keep his mind alive and moving even as he slept, as if he owned the ocean.
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Original Title
03 Among the Fountains of Villa d'Este - Cirilo Baustista
This poem describes the elaborate fountains and gardens of Villa d'Este in Italy. [1] The fountains were created based on one man's vision and explode with water carved into shapes of lions, angels, and virgins. [2] Fish swim through the intricate system of fountains and pools as the water channels from terrace to terrace. [3] The author wonders if the creator of the gardens planned for the water to keep his mind alive and moving even as he slept, as if he owned the ocean.
This poem describes the elaborate fountains and gardens of Villa d'Este in Italy. [1] The fountains were created based on one man's vision and explode with water carved into shapes of lions, angels, and virgins. [2] Fish swim through the intricate system of fountains and pools as the water channels from terrace to terrace. [3] The author wonders if the creator of the gardens planned for the water to keep his mind alive and moving even as he slept, as if he owned the ocean.
Here, one man's dream explodes in water, carved in splashing splendor by lion teeth, angel mouth, breasts 5 of virgins that do not rest. Day and night the liquid sizzles, channeling the dream from terrace to terrace, from stone to stone, till it gathers to a pool that caresses the fish. My brain swims
10 with the fish as they trace their antique
silence to a thousand spouts and fountains, then back to the pool again, One dies again, also, bursting through the skin, and flings his wingless wars 15 to the sun, broken and raining sadness on the soul; but for just a moment, like spumes in air, or the swing of swans to shore, no longer, no better. Bodies The Anthology
bloom and reel in space, juggled and spun by
light, by water, to flash a brilliance, no longer, no better. Was this what he thought, he who planned the garden of his mind, to freeze that brilliance? Did he, in despair, command the water to move his mind to each crevice, each pool, each silent sibilance, each flowing, each song of many endings, each murmur,