He had one leg.

My head had been full of poetry, art, and lofty ideals the whole morning, and I was in that state of fake joy that irremediably comes after a good lunch, a good book and a good morning, the one that vanishes quickly at the first blow from the real world, which usually comes after a couple of days of daydreaming. I was relishing the prospect of an afternoon of leisure, when I was finally gonna write what I had wanted to write for some time now; my manifesto, as I secretly (and rather pedantically) called it.

But not this time. This time all that joie de vivre was going to vanish in record time.

For, you see, he had one leg.


Trinity Sunday, complete with that funny joke during the homily that I had heard before, exactly one year ago: “I remember our professor in the seminary,” Father was saying, “‘Once you’re priests, you’re gonna have to say a sermon during the Feast of the Trinity’ he told us, young novices. ‘If you preach for more than five minutes you should stop. Chances are you’re already preaching heresy'”. Everyone laughs.

Going back to the Tridentine Mass after months away from it was magnificent. Nothing like incense, gregorian chant, mantillas framing beautiful faces and lots of wimpy, loudly crying children from large families to make you love life again. Oh, and throwing away all that crap you’ve been carrying around for weeks, too. Truly invigorating.

After the Sacrifice and in a whim, I walked a different path than usual and stumbled upon the annual greek festival at the Orthodox church around the corner. So it truly has been a year now, I told myself. I wonder if they’ll recognize me. Of course I went in. Who can say no to greek delicacies? Thankfully it seemed that none remembered me and so I decided to treat myself and have my fill of that tasty food of unpronounceable names. Stay clear of the ouzo, I thought, wisely.

It is strange, how repeating experiences can be so different. Like a half-baked déjà vu. The locale was the same, the food was the same, and those in charge of it too, but something felt out of place. The day was gray instead of bright, the musicians weren’t there yet and the church itself was closed, so no kissing of icons this time. I was missing people. Different times, different company. Different everything.

To avoid brooding (something on which I’ve become somewhat of an expert) I went inside and asked for an espresso. Greek style. I ended up chatting with the ladies pouring the coffee, delicious thick accents tickling my ears that forced me to lean forward and struggle with the throng of words rushing out of those mediterranean mouths. We talked about friends, and Crete, and moms and their particular styles of upbringing. “I grew up in a farm”, one of them said. “Mom used to call me ‘donkey’ whenever I was doing something bad, and slap me in the hand”. “Latino moms do the same” I said, laughing as I remembered “el cinto”, and we high-fived.

“It’s been five years since I left Greece”, and a sad smile told me of countless stories of home, filled with the smell of the sea.


I sat by Copley Square, with birds and trees and concrete for company and tourists walking from here to there, taking selfies, speaking all kinds of languages and laughing in one. And opened my quarterly and read a story of loss and love and death, and how someone can be Home. A real tearjerker, but an honest one. Dammit.

Next an essay about poets and how to think like one. Apparently you must first observe the world. Don’t worry about getting it right. Just see. So I did, but a male pigeon was trying to seduce a damsel bird, puffing up and chasing her unsuccessfully all over the park, and I couldn’t help but chuckle. Typical pigeon, I told myself, and again I had to think of something else. Sometimes observing is a little too much to ask.

 It started to rain.


It struck me in a particularly powerful way, I don’t know why. I had seen cripples before, obviously, but something was different this time. Moments before I had been walking my way through the moving maze of bodies and faces that come in and out of Park Street Station, looking at this or that pretty girl as I happily hummed a tune I can’t remember now; and all of a sudden, just downstairs by the metro Red Line, he was there.

On a wheelchair, with a microphone attached to it and close to his mouth, a guitar in his hands, a bucket of sorts near his foot, which rested clumsily on a tambourine. Sporting a baseball cap, a grey old t-shirt, and with only one leg. He probably wasn’t even fifty.

“My mom, your grandma, always gives money to musicians.”, I remembered dad telling me once, long ago. “She says they’re her colleagues.” So I unplugged myself from my earphones, I followed grandma’s example, nodded at a barely muttered “thank you” and I leaned against a brick pillar, to listen. As if I had earned the right to.

He started to play. A simple, nice rock ballad, accompanied by a voice that at times went off-key but that was true and honest and brave.

One child grows up to be
Somebody that just loves to learn…

Maybe he was a veteran? Had he “served his time in hell”? Had he seen war up close, what man can do to man? Did he lose part of him there? Did he believe what he fought for? And is this how his country repays him? Nobody hires a cripple.

And another child grows up to be
Somebody you’d just love to burn.

Maybe he had an accident, Perhaps, a blue collar worker, he lost his leg in an accident. Perhaps he had an accident.

A beautiful blonde woman came to him and put some money in the bucket and a smile on her face. She didn’t stay.

Nobody wants to blow,
Nobody wants to be left out, uh-huh.

Or maybe he caught a sickness. Maybe he caught a terrible sickness, and they chopped his leg off. Better crippled than dead, isn’t it?

You can’t leave ‘cause your heart is there
But, sure, you can’t stay ‘cause you been somewhere else.

I was staring. I could spy his gaze, directed at me every couple of verses or so. But I couldn’t help staring. He was focused in his singing. Was he annoyed? By some random guy looking at him fascinated by him, watching him pull notes from his guitar and words from his strained voice? Was he angry? Hardened by day after day, maybe year after year of passersby pretending not to see him, not to hear him, hurrying away from his presence, like people fleeing a leper.

You can’t cry ‘cause you’ll look broke down;
But you’re cryin’ anyway ‘cause you’re all broke down.

Or was he embarrassed? By the little money I gave him? By his not-so-great musical abilities? And if that was the case, why was I blushing? Why was I reddening, suddenly looking at the floor or at the ceiling, away from him and from that pair of healthy, fancily dressed legs that hold me in my place, that were just starting to shake as if, ashamed, wanted to leave me?

It’s a family affair,
It’s a family affair.
It’s a family affair,
It’s a family affair.

The last verse he sang it in a powerful voice, with a terrible cry, a cry that refused your pity, if you were insolent enough to offer it: he was no beggar, but an artist. His eyes shut, his lips so close to the microphone they kissed it. He cleaned it afterwards with his hand.

A gust of wind indicated that my train had arrived. I walked towards it—for, you see, I have two legs—and entered the car.

I turned around a couple of times; lost to my sight because of the crowd, I couldn’t hear if he had started to sing again or not.

I wish I had thanked him.

The Old Guitarist by Pablo Picasso OSA298

I’m on it…

My dear, dear two readers:

Patience. I know you can’t live without my blog, for it is the sole purpose of your existence, and believe me, I totaly get it. But I’ve been kinda busy lately, and a lot of stuff is going on. I just co-authored a paper on dark matter, with my adviser and another grad student (both of them really bad-ass scientists).

But I haven’t forgotten this. I’m writing a series of three posts that, I think, will be really interesting. With Science! Philosophy! Lame jokes! And too many GIFs!!

In the meantime, because y’all wonderful, gorgeous people, enjoy this one-hour long video of a concert by the magnificent band Typhoon, that happened two years ago in Boston before I knew of their existence. The fact that I wasn’t present during this concert is one of my biggest failures as a human being. Don’t forget to go to Typhoon’s website AND BUY EVERYTHING THEY HAVE IN THE STORE.



by Nine Inch Nails;
as performed by Johnny Cash

I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel.
I focus on the pain,
The only thing that’s real
The needle tears a hole,
The old familiar sting,
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything.

What have I become,
My sweetest friend?
Everyone I know
Goes away
In the end.
And you could have it all,
My empire of dirt.
I will let you down
I will make you hurt.

I wear this crown of thorns
Upon my liar’s chair,
Full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair.
Beneath the stains of time
The feelings disappear;
You are someone else
I am still right here.

If I could start again
A million miles away
I would keep myself
I would find a way.


“The Cross cannot be defeated, for it is defeat.”
“The Ball and the Cross”, G. K. Chesterton.

The Dragon and the Beast

by Manuel Buen-Abad (2015)

There was once a city
washed by the old sea,
of ancient, mighty walls
gray like dirty sin.

Carthage was her name
when the world was young
and powerful she rose
and threatened peace abroad.

Many gods she had,
lying down with them
on a grotesque bed of sorts
made of putrid bones.

Moloch, beast and king:
he who burns and kills;
Tanit: mother, whore;
drinking children’s blood.

And Ba’al Hammon,
lord of darkened souls,
delighting in the stench
of servants’ rotten flesh.

Proud and arrogant Carthage
challenged God Himself,
her gods disgusting filth,
her demons vile and grim.

You, pigs, are New Carthage
your god is not one God
but multitude of them:
all devils of despair.

You piss on your Prophet,
with blood lust slap his face;
were he alive today
he’d put you to the sword.

You worship blood and death,
and fuck your demons and your goats;
you sin the blackest sins
that cry to Heaven for Revenge:

The innocent and orphan,
the widow and the poor
you’ve forced and turned to corpses;
or sold as wretched slaves.

But you forget –yes, you forget
what History was made
when that city’s acrid smell
swiftly reached another shore.

An enemy she made,
a terrible mistake!
Another city, one most brave:
Rome, of glorious name.

Her army a shining one,
her people proud and bright
when Cato sealed your fate:
“We must destroy Carthage”.

And marching down went Rome
and rammed that city’s doors,
and burned and crushed her idols
and, cursing, buried her in salt.

Tremble then, you dogs,
at the mention of ar-Rum
and stop your evil ways
lest your homes are salted too.

But if Rome, in cruel new fate
were now to be defeated;
if the West, grown old and frail
today were to die bleeding

remember that you’ve made
one last Enemy above;
worse than anyone before,
more than what you’ve thought:

The Man-God, Christ Himself,
Lord and King, has heard
the cry of your victims,
their misery and pain.

With every martyr killed,
with every woman raped
and every child disgraced
you fill the earth with crosses.

With every call for help,
and every home destroyed
you bring upon yourselves
the gates of Hell below.

Your faith proclaims
that sooner or later
all the crosses in the world
shall finally be broken

and yet you do not know,
you do not understand:
already they’ve been crushed
by the weight of Him crucified;

crushed many years ago
when our Holy King hung dying;
broken when our God
came glorious back to Life.

Thus all that blood you’ve spilled
on those crosses in the desert
is not in vain, but filled
with the Glory of His Mercy.

And so hear now the Faith,
for He has passed His judgment;
repent and be saved,
continue and be damned:

There is no god but God
and God was Crucified;
there is no hope but Hope
and Hope was Crucified;
there is no love but Love
and Love was Crucified

and Hope and Love, the One True God
extends His arms to you;
and Way and Truth and Life,
our Glorious King on High,
is waiting for your tears
of sorrow, to Forgive.


Otherness and Longing

A lot of stuff has been going on with me lately. So instead of doing the usual (writing about it here or somewhere else) I’ll devote this post to an entirely different thing. Maybe later, when everything has settled down, I’ll put it down in writing.

And so, instead of boring y’all with my thoughts (or making you laugh, depending on how much you care about the idiotic rants coming from a young adult’s brain) I’d like to write a little bit about some ideas I’ve “discovered” last year. And by discovered I mean they’re new to me, but old to the world. The story of such finding is worthy of a post of its own, for it is tied with one of the happiest moments of my life, and another discovery, that of a beautiful soul. But allow me to postpone such a story for happier times and instead focus on the ideas themselves.

Many of them have actually been discussed already in the blog of my (unilateral) buddy Marc Barnes, which you should totally, absolutely, what-the-heck-are-you-waiting-for check right now. He’s an inspiration and a really clever guy, and his insightful posts remind everyone of another really awesome writer whom you should know (seriously, stop reading this and go and get yourself some of his books), only younger, slimmer and on twitter. Total man-crush here.

Marc Barnes

Marc. Gotta love that smile.

So, without further ado, let me start.


Unless you live in a cave in the wild (with, somehow, internet access and enough free time to check ridiculous blogs such as this one) you’ve probably heard of museums and some of their artistic treasures. It is safe to assume you’ve also heard about bigotry and past or present crimes committed against this or that group of people. And you also might have someone in your life you care about. Someone you like, someone whose company you enjoy, maybe someone you love.

All of these seemingly unrelated things have something in common that is their raison d’être, and what ultimately lies at the bottom of the reactions they awake in the person who experiences them. They possess what some people (philosophers and other vermin (I’m joking)) like to call Otherness, that is, the quality of being different or alien to what an observer thinks of as the Self.

Indeed, human experience, as wonderful as it is, is cripplingly restricted by the characteristic of being absolutely personal, subjective. We experience the world and those who inhabit it as outside of ourselves. Our senses are but small windows to that Universe that surrounds us, an Universe that is unknowable in the strictest sense of the word. For, as your average skeptic friend can tell you, we can never be objectively sure that we’re not the only ones in this Universe. That everything we see, smell, touch, hear or taste is an illusion, a creation of our minds. Countless trees (or the illusion of trees, maybe?) have been slaughtered and gone into pages and pages describing the madness-inducing consequences of this ideology, which by the way is the only kind of skepticism thorough and fully committed to its spirit and thus the only one worth a damn.

I will not discuss this particular philosophy (or un-philosophy, for by its etymology philosophy is the love of wisdom, whereas this repulsive idea is nothing but a complete agnosticism on the objective existence of any wisdom or knowledge whatsoever); for that I’ll refer the reader to the first chapters of Chesterton’s magnificent book Orthodoxy. Spoiler alert: those that truly believe in this skepticism are no different than that insane fellow that believes himself the center of a world-wide conspiracy. He sees in the most innocent of his neighbors’ gestures yet another proof of his madness, be it cutting the grass of their front yard or saying “hello” with that diabolical, plot-making smile of theirs. I will rather use this extremist ideology to further press my point: all experience is subjective (which, I stress once again, doesn’t make it unreal or illusory).

But of course, we’re all aware of that. What I mean by this is that I expect that not a single one of my two bored readers will claim that he or she has been able to live another’s life. And I’m not talking about reincarnation, but about being able, here and now, to fully and completely live life as the person right next to him or her. Therefore, I claim, everything that surrounds us is fully Another, something or someone that is completely not-Ourselves.

And yet, most of us live our lives without the thought of it ever crossing our minds. We wake up, drink our coffee, take our morning trip to the potty (or the other way around, depending on your daily routine), go about our businesses and return home without worrying about the philosophical implications that the distinction between the Self and the Other means. And we’re not to blame, because most of the time the effects of such a distinction are barely felt. The laptop I’m writing this post on, the photons that are coming into my eyes and exciting my vision cells, the air I’m breathing, the bartender that sold me that tasty pint of trappist beer a couple of hours ago are all Others, and I didn’t bat an eye. None truly does.

Until they do.

Because in everyone’s life there comes a moment when the presence of Another, of something or someone utterly not-Us makes itself so clear, so painfully obvious that we cannot ignore the fact anymore. We’re trapped in It, puzzled by It, we want to know what It means. The Other makes itself present, and its weight is crushing, overwhelming, abrasive. It demands our most absolute attention. And it can produce in us one of two feelings, or maybe a strange mixture of both: Fear or Longing.

Indeed, we can define the Self in a broader way than that of the individual, as sociologists do. That’s how nations come into being. People distinguish between Us and Them, and borders are drawn, treaties are created, trading takes place, wars are declared. What do some american and european conservatives (or almost any nationalist group), with their immigrant-hating rhetoric; and terrorists groups such as ISIS have in common? A fear, recognized or not, of the Other. A sense of urgency before the threat, imagined or otherwise, that a group of people different from their own represents to their oh-so-wonderful societies. The nationalist considers anything that differs from their idea of a citizen (a member of their nation) as an inferior, in the best of cases, or as an enemy in the worst, deserving of being fought or expelled from their land. The ISIS terrorist wants to get rid of anything dissimilar to their own distorted idea of a perfect society. They regard everyone not pertaining to their homogeneous, monstrous ummah as enemies and therefore subject to death. Even muslims that do not subscribe to ISIS’ definition of Self are persecuted and killed on the spot, needless to say christians and yazidis that refuse to integrate to their blood-thirsty nation, within the boundaries they define on said integration. Fear of the Other is also behin all persecutions that we have ever engaged in: from slavery to xenophobia, from racism to the hating of homosexuals. Fear, then, is one of the reactions we can have when the overwhelming presence of the Other makes itself evident. But, thankfully, I am not concerned with such disgusting feelings in this post. Fear is of no interest to me today. Today, I care about something else.

The experience that the museum visitor has when admiring a powerful painting or an exquisite sculpture, or when someone is enraptured by the passion of a piece of music or dance performance; in other words that overwhelming captivation by the Beautiful, is nothing else but the recognition that there’s something outside of the Self, something Other than Us that deserves our fascination.


Those of you who have a favorite book, like an old friend that you like to visit from time to time, that either makes you laugh or cry or think or all of them at once; those, I said, will understand what I mean. We read and re-read this book, and each time we discover something new, something we missed, or a different way to think about this character or that event. We recreate a scene in our heads, and we enjoy exploring it again and again, never getting enough of it. When we’re passionate about a painting, we can spend hours studying it, analyzing this stroke of the brush, that combination of colors and forms, trying to absorb it, to embrace it all, to understand, without ever being able to fully achieve that goal. We can repeat the same dancing routine many times and we can discover new things about ourselves and the dance itself in each repetition, and yet we’ll never be able to fully finish it, to completely explore every single possibility, every angle of our hands, head or feet, every possible sensation. No one can honestly said he has gotten all there is to get from one of Shakespeare’s plays or one of Beethoven’s symphonies. People spend their entire lives studying them and they’re no closer to finding an ultimate answer to all the questions that can be asked about them than when they started. The same can be said of the scientist that truly loves her trade. Truth is her only purpose, and yet she never gets enough of it. Every new discovery only exacerbates her thirst for more of that same Truth. We are never satisfied. We want more of it, we yearn for these Others, we long for Them. In a new sense of the word, we want to be Them, to experience existence the way They do, for maybe then we’re gonna find an end to our burning desire to understand Them.

Of course, there are distortions of this feeling of Longing, depraved ways in which we can act when confronted with such powerful emotions. For example obsession, that disordered feeling in which he who longs desperately tries to own the object of his longing, performing unhealthy, creepy actions that might hint to a mental problem (I once met a guy that used to hoard his girlfriend’s trash, like potato chips’ bags and such). Or the social phenomenon known as cultural appropriation, that can reach extremes that, even though originally well-intended, can be rather insulting. But I am not interested in discussing such perversions. What I’m concerned with in this post is that powerful, all-consuming need of understanding the object of the longing, of getting more of it, of re-discovering its qualities.

Never is this more evident than in the ridiculous, powerful and always maddening adventure of being in love. Then it is painfully clear what this longing for the Other is. Bewitched by our beloved’s eyes, we stare at her for minutes without end; breath is taken away at the strange, fascinating touch of her hand; we gaze upon her lips or that beautiful curve of her body or that lock of hair, and study them over and over and over again, absorbing it all, feeling it all and yet not getting any closer to fully embracing her all. We try to memorize each particularity of her skin, of her smell or of the sounds her steps make and yet, every single time, that pretty mole we thought we knew presents itself under a different light, that perfume so well-known to us has an altogether new fragrance and those steps surprise us again with their musicality. We never get tired of her. We want to listen to her interests, her fears, her aspirations, her ideas, her feelings. We try to read her mind, to understand. We never get tired of exploring our beloved.

This romantic longing reaches its more intense form of expression in the act of making love. All that kissing and touching, that burning need to continually embrace and remain embraced by the other, they are but the physical embodiment of that hunger to be one, the only way in which a complete encompassing of the meaning of the beloved’s existence could possibly happen. The striking similarity between the facial expressions of pain and of pleasure, as well as the sounds involved (sighs, moans, groans) can, in a very literal sense, be understood under the premise that the body itself knows such a perfect union to be impossible. In other words, through the most intense pleasure our bodies become aware of the painful reality: complete union, absolute satisfaction of such a longing for the Other, is impossible.

Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, by Bernini. The only way the Master could have represented the powerful, mystical rapture of the Divine was through something as powerful as humanely possible: orgasm.

“Ecstasy of Saint Teresa”, by Bernini. The only way the Master could represent the powerful, painful, mystical rapture by the Divine that St. Teresa experienced was through something as powerful as humanely possible: pleasure; more concretely, sexual pleasure. By the way, this is inside a church.

And that’s what’s ultimately crazy and horrible and absurd about this world. That all the longing and desire appear to be completely pointless. For we and our loved ones are utterly different, Others to each other. We can never, ever understand them, feel them, know them, experience life as they do, be them. Our most desperate, powerful and heart-wrenching desires are doomed to pass unsatisfied while we live. And, to some of us, that idea is simply unbearable. The fact that, despite all of your efforts and all of your attempts you will never be closer to solving the mystery that the existence of a loved one represents, that you will never get to truly know her, is a horrible one, enough to put us in an asylum.

And so, people have come to develop different reactions before such an absurdity. The easiest, cleanest one is suicide. Killing Oneself is apparently the only way in which we can close our eyes to the reality of the Other and our hearts to the pain of Longing. But that is hardly a solution. It’s a cowardly way to react, a betrayal to Life, a slight to the whole Universe, an insult to the tiniest of flowers. Again, Chesterton is the true master in the matter; I refer to his previously mentioned book.

Another way to react (perhaps the most common) is shunning oneself from the external world. To avoid acknowledging the existence of the Other or, at least, its importance. If we can live a life without any meaningful relationships (to art, Beauty, Truth and other people), then we are safe… aren’t we?

Maybe. But then life becomes miserable if we cannot stop thinking about the conundrum Otherness imposes on us. And one good day (or bad day) Option #1 becomes very, very alluring.

The third way is the most difficult one. It’s the one that turns the question over.

Indeed, this world seems absurd, with all its unsatisfying experiences, all that Longing, that fire that keeps burning inside of us without consuming.

But maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe we’re meant to burn with Longing while in this world, and do something with this fire. Maybe this thirst, this horrible craving points towards Something else, or Someone else, Another that fully can satisfy us. We long for Truth, for Good, for Beauty. We long for Perfection. We seek it in art, in science, in a beloved. The mere existence of such an intense desire would be paradoxical and utterly absurd if that were the whole story.

But it isn’t. And in the meantime, that fire has a purpose. As Blessed Mother Teresa put it:

I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.


That was a rather long post. So, if you’re still awake and because y’all are beautiful people, I leave you with the picture of one of my favorite artists. Have a wonderful night.

Naomie Harris, a.k.a. Moneypenny. Please, try not to kiss the screen.

Naomie Harris, a.k.a. Moneypenny. Please, try not to kiss the screen.


To my Grandfather,

by Manuel Buen-Abad (2015)

It was dark,
like every other day
and every night;
like every instant of my

It was dark, and I was sleeping.

It was quiet and empty;
every moment
in this slumber of mine
a terrible silence
that weighed upon my soul
with the weight of a coffin.

It was dark, and I was dead.

I had almost forgotten
what it was like to breathe,
what it was like to wish, to see,
to feel, to live.

But in the dark I was forgotten.

There was no pain,
no horrors nor endless fire;
but there was no Love either;
no light, no music.
There was Nothing.

It was dark, and I was Nothing.

Sometimes –though time had no meaning
I could remember what it was like Before:
the warmth of the sun, the gaiety of dance,
the blisters in my hands,
the fresh fragrance of Her skin.

I yearned then, for Something.
For Someone.

But it was dark, and I was No One.

Before this I had been Just,
a True and Honest Man;
Before I had loved
— a Woman, a Son, a God;
but now all had been taken from me,
now there was my soul
and Nothing more.

It was dark, and Nothing more.

But then one Night
was like no other night;
one Night the darkness
was almost kind,
like the darkness before peace,
like expecting a new day.

It was dark, but not for long.

Because thunder came
and lightning broke in
and a terrible roar
cracked open my tomb.

And He was there,
mighty, crushing;
His presence cutting the Void

like an ax an oak;
piercing Silence
like the Sun at Dawn.

I could see then,
and feel and breathe
and live;
and I could remember.

And I knelt then,
on the void,
on the blackness of my tomb
and bowing down
I murmured
“My Lord”.

But He put one hand upon my shoulder
and with the other lifted my head and met my eyes;
I could see His gaze burning
with tears of fire.

He spoke then, a single Word
and His voice resounded
through a darkness that was no more
— ah, how I had loved that voice!
the one Word I had missed
from the World of the Living,
a Word that made me shiver
with the joyful memories of days long gone;
a Word that lifted my soul
to Heaven above.

A single Word He spoke,
and my World was then
a World of Joy.

I will remember it forever,
until the end of Time:


A las Tres de la Tarde

por Manuel Buen-Abad (2014)

Todos los días, a las tres de la tarde
subo a la cumbre, andando adelante
y gritando, escupiendo, jurando y bramando
blando mi látigo a los que están a mi mando.

Todos los dí­as, a las tres de la tarde
empujo a los lados la muchedumbre irritante,
que dejen pasar a quien viene jadeante
callado, sereno, cubierto de sangre.

Todos los dí­as, a las tres de la tarde
me burlo de Él, le azoto y le arranco
trocitos de carne y de piel; y con harto
placer con su horrible tortura me embriago.

Todos los días, a las tres de la tarde
lo clavo en la cruz; lo dejo colgando
y viendo a su Madre, doliente a su lado
hay algo en mi que se viene quebrando.

Pues todos los días, a las tres de la tarde
Aquél a quien mato cual sucio gusano
me mira tan triste, sin odio ni llanto
y veo que sus ojos no tienen reclamo.

Un grito, un suspiro a ese cielo que arde
por todos nosotros que pedimos su sangre,
y entrega su alma sin mancha a su Padre
todos los días a las tres de la tarde.

A Prayer in Darkness

by G. K. Chesterton

This much, O heaven—if I should brood or rave,
Pity me not; but let the world be fed,
Yea, in my madness if I strike me dead,
Heed you the grass that grows upon my grave.

If I dare snarl between this sun and sod,
Whimper and clamour, give me grace to own,
In sun and rain and fruit in season shown,
The shining silence of the scorn of God.

Thank God the stars are set beyond my power,
If I must travail in a night of wrath,
Thank God my tears will never vex a moth,
Nor any curse of mine cut down a flower.

Men say the sun was darkened: yet I had
Thought it beat brightly, even on—Calvary:
And He that hung upon the Torturing Tree
Heard all the crickets singing, and was glad.

Aedh wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

Softly she didn’t tread:
like an army marched upon a land
that was already dead.

by W. B. Yeats (1899)

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.