I had a perfect dream
of twisted spires of porcelain,
like solid cream,
dripping up to an azure sheet of air
over the too-hot street.

A dream of you and I,
in this viscous summer sky, of haze
that curls in wondrous flow,
caressing the gaps
in the maze of surreal spires
and the lives that play below.

Glimpses of Míro.
Sounds of guitar, and spice-scents.

I want all the world to see
and feel the love, the awe,
that your voice inspires in me.
Carved by dead artists,
from raw emotion into a crystal form,
of organic beauty.

So here we are, with Gaudi,
and I am dying.
How touching the words seem,
now I've made it here, to you,
and into my dream of Barcelona.