Stations of the Cross of a Ghostly Love

Stations of the Cross of a Ghostly Love

Initial Rubric:

Here begins the procession of ghostly love,
where each station is absence,
each absence is revelation.

A letter erected on beams and wind,
made of broken tiles and nocturnal breaths.
To love is the echo of its pulse on the rooftops
of a deserted city,
where the windows close like tired eyelids
and the wind runs through the streets like a forgotten chant.

Gloss:

The roof is the tympanum of the city,
vibrating with the absent heart.

Here begins the procession:
the sound without a body, the body without sound.

A letter molded in bones and dust, like a column of ash supporting oblivion.
To love is to descend to the basement of the abandoned house,
to touch the cold floor, to feel the dust like ash of ancient rituals,
to hear the creaking of the boards like bones that remember.

Note:

The cellar is a dark womb,
guardian of the archaeology of love.

Each plank is bone, each dust is a relic.

A letter made of extinguished stars,
drawn on beams that resemble constellations.

To love is to ascend to the forgotten attic,
where the body no longer touches us,
but leaves the astonishment suspended,
like a promise that is never fulfilled.

Marginal comment:

The attic is an inner heaven.
Here the ghost settles in like an extinguished star
that insists on shining.

A letter in the form of an invisible cross,
traced between shadow and light.
It is to walk between shadows and lights,
like one who carries an invisible cross,
made of absence, made of desire that is not consummated.

Liturgical exegesis:

The Stations of the Cross are vertical: roof, cellar, attic.
Each step is absence,
each absence is revelation. A flaming letter, trembling like a lit candle in the wind.
Love is the flickering of candles in the darkness, each flame a season,
each flash a wound, each shadow a testimony.

Observation:

The flame is a wound that illuminates.
Love is a candle that never goes out, even trembling in the wind.

A bronze letter, suspended like a bell that resounds in the void.
On the roof, the heart beats against the silence, like a bell that finds no faithful,
like a trumpet that announces only emptiness.

Note:

The heart is a bell without an assembly. Sound is liturgy without community.

A letter excavated in layers of dust, like a hidden inscription on ancient parchment.
In the basement, love is archaeology: layers of dust, bones of remembrance,
fragments of voices that no longer rise.

Gloss: Each layer is scripture. The dust is parchment, the bones are letters.

A celestial letter, made of dead stars
that still shine in the eye of memory.

In the attic, love is an inner sky, a constellation of ghosts,
extinguished stars that still shine in the eye of memory.

Commentary:

The attic is an inverted cosmos.

The ghost is a fallen star that insists on being a map.

A letter that reverberates,
made of sound waves that repeat endlessly.

To love is to traverse this verticality, from the roof to the basement,
from the basement to the attic, like a procession of echoes.

Brief exegesis:

The echo is a priest.

It leads the procession without a body, but with a voice.

A letter of bones and relics,
kept as a sacred fragment. It is carrying the absent body as a relic,
it is kissing the air as if it were skin,
it is touching the void as if it were an altar.

Gloss: The absent body is a relic. The void is an altar. The kiss is a sacrament.

A letter made of tears, curved like longing
that never dissolves. To love is the rite of absence,
the sacrament of forgetting, the liturgy of longing.

Instance:

Longing is a mass without a priest.
Forgetting is an invisible host.

A letter of stone, engraved as a song
that survives silence.
It is the song that does not fall silent,
even when the mouth no longer sings,
even when the ear no longer hears.

Note:

The song is eternal.
It survives silence,
like writing on stone.

A spectral letter, written on the ceiling as an invisible inscription.
Love is the echo that persists, that reverberates on worn walls,
that is engraved on the ceiling like an invisible inscription.

Commentary:

An echo is spectral writing.

It writes the name of the absent one on the ceiling.

A flaming letter, trembling like a prophet
that announces the impossible.

It is the tremor of the candle that announces that there is still fire,
that there is still breath, that there is still faith in the impossible.

Repair:

The candle is a prophet.

The tremor is a sign that the impossible still breathes.

A letter of sand and wind,
traced by bare feet on cold stones.

Love is walking in silence, bare feet
on cold stones, eyes raised to nothingness,
hands open to the wind.

Exegesis: Silence is the road.
The wind is a companion.
Nothingness is the horizon.

A translucent letter, made of breath and absence.
It is accepting the ghost as a companion,
it is embracing the void as if it were flesh,
it is kissing oblivion as if it were a mouth.

Gloss:

The ghost is a lover.

The void is a body.

Oblivion is a kiss.

A letter in the form of a wound, open like a revelation.
To love is the ghost’s via crucis,
each station an absence,
each absence a revelation,
each revelation a wound that opens.

Brief Exegesis:

The Stations of the Cross is a map of absence.

Each wound is scripture.

A circular letter, alpha and omega, the return of the echo.

And at the end of the procession, when the roof no longer resonates,
when the cellar no longer holds bones,
when the attic no longer haunts,

only the echo remains, the echo of your pulse,
that insists on dwelling in the rooftops, in the cellars,
in the attics, of the deserted city, of the abandoned house,
of the body that no longer touches us.

Note:

The end is return.
The echo is alpha and omega.
The ghost is a circle.

An eternal letter, made of fire that never goes out.

To love is never to end, it is to repeat the rite,
it is to light the candle again, it is to hear the echo again,
it is to walk the Stations of the Cross again,
even knowing that the ghost will never be consumed.

Marginal comment:

Love is an infinite rite.

The ghost is eternity.

The candle is eternally lit.