The Old Town

And it was well.
         A warm spring air lofted over the dewed and soft grass, kissing the hot pavement before flying of for sunnier climes. The valley was ripe and tender, the town ablaze with warmth and centrality, a true town. Immigrant, locals, natives sat in the rooms and feasted upon the Summer treats come early; on the grill sausages and hamburgers and the grapes past and crushed. And a hundred heads knelt and ate.
         And the young arose swiftly. With cries and hoots, parading for the soon crusading of another basement, attic, or evil place; to rid the places, to exorcize them of their devils, their infidels. Torches of shock in hand, down, up, or through they flew, all to screams, or, to the veterans, yells of holy and divine ordinance, like “Avast!” and “A-ha!” And a great many else. And by the fourth time, the house was clean, and they moved on. And by third grade, they had either cleaned out all the houses or no longer saw the enemy, and either way, it was no longer fun.

And it was well.
         
         The town was soft and home unto the soft homes of town. And years a town, soft town, had baked to burn, and dry, and the men of fire came to wet the soft town. And air was washed, bathed, baptized in spring waters. And the bread turned to dough.

And it was well.

         And the flame men were remembered as gods of men and martyrs to humanity. And a temple was made, gilded in the golden chorus of one thousand Ooohing boys, and one million Aaahing girls. And it was filled of relics and divine glass, all unworthy of touch, and of priest suits and and worship garms for the young, and a million offerings.

And it was well.

And off in hills, the devotees played bola and all the games, blessed by the rosary hum of an Indian flute somewhere on a wind, and a Copia of all the delicacies arose. And spring blossomed into a Summer.

And it was good.