The Imperfect Façade
Look up, wanderer. My brothers worked with the clay of their own kilns and a pinch of imagination: up there, among the little arches, plates from far away shine.
Where the monks drained the marsh and hid time in the bricks.
“Peace be with you, wanderer. I am Brother Gualcherio, the first abbot of Morimondo. I speak from the afterlife and I use few words: we are Cistercians.”Brother Gualcherio
What the narrator asks you. The answer, and the true fact behind it, is for you to find on the spot.
Look up, wanderer. My brothers worked with the clay of their own kilns and a pinch of imagination: up there, among the little arches, plates from far away shine.
The façade has a porch five centuries younger than the abbey. Time lays a hand even on the sternest monuments.
Boats loaded with Venetian salt came up this water. Count the locks, wanderer, and walk the towpath without going near the water.
In the cloister the silence has capitals decorated with leaves. Three sides remain as my brothers left them.