Credo at Chartres Cathedral
I was the pilgrim
whose heart beats in time with the rose window.
A woman with a student’s mind—
always hungry,
always questioning the authority of dust,
turning history over in her palm
like a strange, worn coin.
A woman with a memory—
not just recalling, but re-weaving,
feeling the roots beneath the cathedral,
hearing the spring’s song
through the stone.
She walks the labyrinth
not to find the center,
but to remember the path
she never forgot.
I refuse to sleepwalk through my days, she says.
The labyrinth is older than the cathedral—
a Druid garden’s ghost,
a sacred spring’s fingerprint,
its energy a slow, turning river
pulling her toward the source.
And the music—
not of pipes, but of power rising:
an iced heat,
the same force that pushed armed swarms—
formidable, timeless.
This is what she shall listen to.
This is what she shall answer to.
©Misky 2006-2025.
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