Catedral de Santa María de Palma de Mallorca, Palma, Majorca, Spain. Photograph by Pavel Chernyakov
[музыка] [музыка] Ка.
Starhull of Palma
Coming back to the Catedral,
its spires like thrusters,
stone ribs humming with ghost-engines,
I’m thinking of ending things.
Not me, not you, but the drift—
the way this basilica, this ship,
sits heavy on Mallorca’s crust,
pretending it’s not aching to fly.
Gothic arches, they curve like orbits,
stained glass flaring novas,
reds and blues bleeding into void.
It’s been grounded too long,
this vessel of saints and starlight,
its hull of limestone and faith
creaking under the weight of centuries.
I walk its nave, and it whispers:
We were never meant to stay.
The rose window spins,
a galaxy trapped in lead,
each shard a story of some monk
who dreamed of skies beyond the sea.
Did they know? Did they feel
the pulse of ion drives
beneath the organ’s drone?
This ship, it sailed once,
through nebulae of prayer,
through the black where God
is just a flicker of static.
I’m thinking of ending things—
the way we tether ourselves
to altars, to islands, to bones.
The Catedral groans,
its buttresses straining
like wings clipped by gravity.
It wants to burn again,
to tear through the atmosphere,
to chase the Pleiades
or crash into the sun.
Tourists shuffle, snapping pics,
their voices like cosmic dust,
settling in the cracks of eternity.
They don’t see the helm,
hidden in the apse,
where a captain-saint once steered
by the light of a forgotten star.
I touch the stone,
and it’s warm,
like it remembers the flare
of a supernova’s kiss.
Coming back to the Catedral,
I’m thinking of ending things—
the lie that we’re fixed,
that stone is stone,
that ships don’t dream.
This place, it’s no church.
It’s a relic of elsewhere,
a hull that hums with questions:
Why do we stay?
Why do we kneel
when we were built to soar?
The wind off the Balearic Sea
sings to its spires,
and I swear I hear it answer:
Not yet. Not yet.
But one night,
when the moon is a cold diode,
this Catedral will shake free,
its rose window spinning,
its towers roaring plasma,
and it’ll climb,
leaving Palma, leaving Earth,
a speck in its starwake.
I’m thinking of ending things,
but not the ship.
Not the ship.
–
.
.
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