Nobody would believe me if I described
Such a sunset. They would say
That rhetoric's tired clichés had caught fire
In my brain, that the Great Complicator made me
A simple youth in the pot of poesy.
The renowned clouds of the Creator El Greco
Did not climb by mountainous heroics.
They were valleys awash
In pearl wavelets, and silence
Flowed through them like a crystalline holy day.
I, the great cloud-connoisseur, conclude
That Toledo is now a city plundered
Of its ma**ed spoils of terror, now sundered in the sky
Are all her oxen-horns, her arrow-storms.
Maybe El Greco too thought of such a possibility.