Othon Welsh

Sketches of Desires

Footsteps and tears fill the hollow place as did murals, its windows. Colored in dim candles and bright camera flashes. People dispersed among each pulpit, you would see a cluster of heads, resembling small beads. Looking up, looking down, in awe, or in prayer. Each person – solemn – no gaze caught another; sermons in eloquent whispers. The wind and piercing sunlight brought reverence. 

The smell of incense and wax engulf you…

You are no one. 

Outside there is a strong wind. 

Once a beautiful cathedral, polluted by souvenir shops and illegal cameras.

Outside there is a strong wind. 

I once dreamt of a wonderful cottage, brown and built from the same ground God used to borne Adam. Its roof, decorated in flowers, was pink; it stood in front of a lush meadow; not a speck of trash touching its grass. Instead of colorful plastic bottles and plastic bags: the meadow was colored by fields of flowers and the monotone buzzing of bees. In jets of air and glowing sunlight. Tulips, roses, sunflowers. Surrounded by trees, acorns and pine needles. Never entering. A warm place that exceeds my imagination and reality: where I felt the meadows and smelled the perfumes; it was freedom, it was beauty. Eden.