Ignatius Loyola

Abstract

Through more than thirty years you dreamed your hyperactive adventures, vibrating earth under driving feet, gunpowder in nose and ears, victors’ banners catching the noisy breeze, a cocky gallant in colorful hose cocking an elegant slim leg for every town’s black eyes in pink silk, until at Pamplona a French cannon-ball shattered your legs, red flesh ripped by white bone. Through months of broken, set, broken, reset legs, gangrenous and racked, the soldier of Spain, imprisoned in bed, a dynamo fused in immobility, became a soldier of the soul.