On crosses (De Crucibus)

Dad had a unique approach to Faith.  He believed in a Supreme Being, regardless of religion.  It was interesting to see him on a Sunday running around to walk my Mum down to our local catholic church and then later on joining his best friend, a Christian pastor at his Sunday Service.  From my Dad’s book Under the shadow (Sombrabajo). 

On crosses (De Crucibus)

I talk about my cross and His cross.

Mine is rough and humiliating, not sublime like His.

Made of hard sticks, without sap nor bark,

without fertilisers or roots with prophetic depth,

oh the tragic contrast of mine and His bursting with light

that my profane eyes do not see.  It hangs in front of me

like the flag from the triumphant battle, flaming, flying,

symbol of freedom or death.

The man nailed there, fixed, smeared with

mod and blood, could, just like the vespertine afternoon,

remove the elements, transform water, fire, air

and sun, or, just like at the last supper table, penetrate,

folded in silence, the horrid depth of the human heart.

The Cross unfolds its horizontal stick-axis

like loving wings cross the vertical support just like when

my hand crosses out a word from the paper with a poem.  And I find it

here, in this quiet gallery, like in other places,

surrounded by light, shadows and moaning and solemn voices.

I recall seeing it before.  The antique stained-glass windows

reproduced godly faces made of stone.  The images were melted on the lit wax-walls.

The walls were decorated with stickers.  The shadows were mistaken up above.

And down below, under the artificial lights,

between candles and offerings of the coal-man’s faith,

other shadows, men kneeling down,

praying or maybe cursing, their face in their hands,

each carrying a cross like mine,

at this hour.

What a memorable evening beside Your Cross.

I am here, looking at you, profane, matching the burden

that men gave you, with mine, simple and light, infertile,

therefore just mine.

I am not alone.  Besides mine there are thousands of crosses

that inhabit the roads that travel this way, gravity

travelling toward the Cross erected under the church’s nave.

Following the destiny of the beaches, what would have been

a dam, canal or inlet, turns into a versatile bastion

hit equally by the noble wave and the sun and the

fleshing breeze, the dregs from the river-bed, the amorphous detritus,

in a constant and renewed  promiscuity of miseries.

Each and everyone speaking here in their own language,

that ‘yes, of course’, exempted from hypocritical turns, giving themselves

completely to Your silence and imploring Your divine and merciful compassion.