The stone of Catalonia was calling his name,
When a frail, quiet boy out of Reus became
The master of curves and the builder of light,
Who swore that the straight line was wrong in his sight.
“There are no straight lines in the forest or tree,”
Said Antoni Gaudí, “so they won’t be with me.”

He saw in the hillsides, the shells, and the sand,
The blueprint of God for the architecture of land.
He captured the waves of the Mediterranean sea
And froze them in iron, in stone, and decree.
A hermit of art who was lonely and deep,
With a vision so grand that it broke him from sleep.

× × ×

Then into his workshop of plaster and stone,
Walked Eusebi Güell, with a wealth of his own.
The count saw the genius, the spark in the youth,
And gave him the millions to build out the truth.
No contract, no limits, no corporate chain,
Just two noble dreamers in sun-splashed Spain.

They sculpted the park where the dragon still sits,
In a mosaic wonderland broken to bits.
They built the grand palace, the columns of brick,
Where the textures were heavy and daring and thick.
Güell was the anchor, the brother, the shield,
Who allowed the great master to conquer the field.

× × ×

But the soul of Antoni was bound to one site,
A mountain of stone reaching into the night.
The Sagrada Família, his passion, his cross,
For which he abandoned all profit and loss.
He moved his old bed to the dusty church floor,
And begged for the coins at the cathedral door.

He designed the great towers like clusters of wheat,
With geometric angles that never repeat.
The Nativity facade arose like a cave,
Where nature and scripture joined hands in the nave.
“My client,” he smiled, “is in no rush at all,”
As he poured his own blood into every tall wall.

× × ×

Then a tram in the street struck the old, ragged chap,
Whose coat was held together with a clip like a crap.
They thought he’s a beggar, forgotten and dead,
Till they saw the drawings inside his old head.
He died in the ward of the poor and the plain,
While his lovely temple cried in the rain.

× × ×

A century has vanished, the stonecutter sings,
As the towers rise high on the stone-molded wings.
The patron is gone and the artist is dust,
But the forest of pillars fulfills their great trust.
The sun hits the stained glass in scarlet and truth—
The dream of Gaudí is still breaking through.