The poem
The road led straight to the temple. Notre Dame, though not Gothic at all. The huge doors were closed. I chose one on the side, Not to the main building-to its left wing, The one in green copper, worn into gaps below. I pushed. Then it was revealed: An astonishing large hall, in warm light. Great statues of sitting women-goddesses, In draped robes, marked it with a rhythm. Color embraced me like the interior of a purple-brown flower Of unheard-of size. I walked, liberated From worries, pangs of conscience, and fears. I knew I was there as one day I would be. I woke up serene, thinking that this dream Answers my question, often asked: How is it when one passes the last threshold?