Saturday, March 12, 2016


Delft I thought

was Chinaware pouring out of workshops run by elves who paint the famous blue designs with their magic wands, 

burly cheese bearers in their white costumes and hats prancing the Edam cheese ballet, 

and multi-colored tulip fields blooming, canals rippling, and windmills fluttering.

But Delft 

is a half-finished Central Station with no luggage lockers

and the information center near the New Church where I left my baggage.

The New Church

old actually [1381] and later claimed by a protesting new religion who feuded with the pope,

guardian of the forbidden royal crypt of William the Silent's House of Orange-Nassau,

and host to the second tallest Dutch church tower that imposes over the Old Church.

The Old Church

old indeed [1240] and grave keeper of the famous and a Dutch master who died a pauper,

Bible stories shinning through its stained windows as church music echoed from massive organs,

tower a-tilt like Pisa without the the risotto, the pizza, and the pasta.

And lunch

is deep fried herring tempered with garlic sauce and washed with orange juice,

the famous Vermeer lady stared back with Delft-blue blank eyes,

as lesser churches got snubbed by habitual bikers and sudden Instagramers.

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