In days that only the old men 

Sitting, smoking 

Placidly dying 

In la Placa can remember 

The celebrated gothic murals 

Adorning La Capella de Saint Julia with Saint Quirze 

Were destroyed 

And the relics of Saint Elm of the Navigators'  

Desecrated 

 

This was nineteen thirty six 

The perpetrators well known 

But lips stay sealed 

Better the devil goes unspoken. 

 

In the high wall canyons 

Of Calella carrers 

Shuttered houses sprout balconies 

Exhausted Wisteria droops 

And cacti from dusty terracotta 

A hopeful birdcage linnet sings 

Bedding is aired, rebel flags hang limp 

And a cycle wheel pokes between the bars 

 

The pavements of Calella 

Teem with toy dogs yapping in Catalan 

And tourists idling

Passing time 

Browsing for an authentic 

Ethnic bargain 

In the stew of mass market 

Souvenir trinket, tee shirt, and flip flop shops 

 

The streets are heavy scented 

Hand tooled leatherwork stalls 

Jostle pizzeria and cafes' “Plato Combinados“

To attract the attention  

Of wallets and nostrils  

Passing by 

 

Hawkers cry 

"Good price for you...special" 

Above the babel 

Of sports and karaoke bars 

Foreign tongues and Euro-pop 

 

The Capella of Saint Julia with Saint Quirze 

Stands neglected 

Locked, barred 

There is no congregation 

The old men know the reason 

But lips are sealed