Malta

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Malta
 
Hands opened, move out from me
In a house of opened hands
I am looking for hands
Hands to hold hands
Hands to search through a box
            stuffed with wool and fur
Hands go by, holding hands high
A pair of calloused hands
            with virgin intentions
Hands of innocence charged experientially
I admire the bold crimson
            the arch red of this holy house's
 certainty of a faith that erupts out of
History's armored chest in bolts
            of blazing fireworks
Of a harp-sung genius
            that enters my chest without knocking
Here the cross has eight points
Eight languages to defend the faith
            Espanol, Italiano, Provence, Deutch,
 Francais
Somewhere the long dead peregrine
Is given into the hands of strangers
            by La Valette
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