***
Bitter years of suffering elapsed
insomnia, fever, cannibals
no one could tear my Jesus
from singing in my soul
the true liturgy is being celebrated
after so much torment and so much
cry of despair the suffering morphs
into a bundle of rays into air.
Why do you care that they all
turn into dust and in how many
mirrors we looked life goes dark
in the memory, in the transparency
of the water, in the resounding
sepulchral slabs of the air
in the moving notches of the shadow
you’ll hide you’ll be defoliated
as tranquilly as a tree. The dust
behind hollers.
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