the centre block is closing, butthe icon will notclose, will remain there, the iconremains, is already engraved on the collective eye, around its libraryeverything the flamescould not take awayover the years, undo, unsettleeverything that is still presentprotected under the domeof its arcs and its windowsof its majestic lightof its warmth and its silence, the privilegeof its respite, these momentsfar from the echoes of rushed footsteps, right therenext to it but far away, everything that remainsthat is always therefrom the tree, from its skin, from its paper, the spine of its text the icon will not closepeaceful, timeless, in the service of a worldunder the sun of a golden leafits arms benevolent and peacefulthe chorus, our memoryremains there

we will shift directionsto bring the village to lifeevery day outside its centreits block, every minute, secondfor as long as it takes your itinerary will change, the wind’s direction, its anglewill take your breath away, a bit differentyour route between the cement skyscrapersits streets, will have different names, butthe vaulted roof, the icon will remain there, presenton the display screen of your ideasit will guide, attract you, carry you

you will bring to it the experience of yournew paths and passage-waysthe icon will keep the experience alive remembering these moments, years spent in the foyer of the building, the light bathing the stone in gold, the solemn limestone, the call to honour, to the safetyits marble, the way your feet sought outthe centre of each of its stairscurved by the erosion of footstepsrushed, decisive, of everycolour, ricochetsof agreements, threats, and puffs of conversation billowing up, muffled exchanges, rising upits staircase

The Closing of the Centre Block, or Village(field notes)

Georgette LeBlanc, Parliamentary Poet Laureate

centre blockits marble, its copper the green grass of the village, its carpet spread out for others who have come to visit, who have crossed oceans, deaths and declines, injustices, partingsto make their way hereto the energy of this building, of its last cups of coffeescalding or left to get cold, set down by skilled hands, hands too full, the wooden thudof the gavel, the summit of a decisionat the morning cafeteria, to thecurrents, waves, outpourings of journalists, visitors, toursthe focus on the written word, issuedto find an answer, to be accepted, to test the waters,to be swept along in the crowd, under the columns and within the banks of a river, the walls of a parliament even more fierceits edges emboldenedrevitalized

closing the centreblocktaking the time to restore itself, ourselves, even if it isimpossible, on some level, to restore or rebuildin exactly the same way, at the same costkeeping, loving its wisdom, its curves, and its columnsthe experience of all that everyone has done, wanted to do, soughtand recognized in ourselves

the iconwill remain openand closed, the centreblock is, will be, forever transformed