your bleeding hands smile
in the unwritten question of your Face…
the pieces of wood re-write and pro-claim
the logic that validates your tears
nailed to the rusting iron(y) of reason,
as the fading horizon whispers
in a thousand sunsets of rebirth and glory
in tongues burned and silenced
as you spread your arms, and embrace
this noble humiliation
of your frail and dying Voice.
your arrogance as king and savior
is the dignity by which your feet tremble in fear…
your eyes speak and evoke
in the knowing wisdom of your battered figure
lashed with the sorrow of pride and power
as slowly, your agony becomes
the sweet, cathartic agony of your birth —
lustful and obscene to the memory
of your love and devotion.
very little, almost nothing:
it lies, lies and lies upon you,
… in the violence of your Gaze
towards that which only your eyes could hear.
each wound is the scarred threshold of decision
of a responsibility whose only escape
is the undecidable and the unconditional acceptance
to forgive your profane memory in despair —
through the haunting stillness of your sacrifice and death:
in another attempt to re-write the history of madness
steeped in the impregnable Cogito,
you seek a question to the answers
of your humanity.
— you have ceased to die the moment you were born,
written in history, before you have Spoken.
and the moment of utter(able) freedom
is recognized only in the face of your love
whose total embrace and redemption
is masked in the silent eloquence of the Word.
you are chosen, broken and shared —
to satisfy the hunger of those
who struggle within and against
the oppressive and caring sanctity
of your unwritten burden…
— your Cross that re-writes and unsays
the unspeakable violence of your love.
