We climbed the sharp crag to the stark towers of Quéribus,

the last Cathar castle perched precariously against

an implacable blue sky. A lone golden eagle,

rapt defender, silently passed. The Cathars

rejected the world of the flesh: meat, wine, body.

But we were in France, and still in love. An appetizer

of creamy chèvre was waiting in the sun-drenched café

by the river. The blood-red Languedoc dozed in its carafe.

Above us, the foothills still brooded, wrapped in the past.

At Montségur, they were given the choice: convert or burn.

They all went up in flames, too pure for this world.

But here, the croissants are made of gold, and the coffee

is rich and dark as the robes of heaven. Our bodies

sang in the night. Forgive us, Good Men, Holy Cathars.

We love this flesh, the messy existence of sex, blood, birth.

And yet we look up at your abandoned fortresses carved out of cliffs

in a nest of air, walk the same stony steps you trod on your path

to God, and are left to ponder how you never wavered.