Perhaps there’s mercy in the skies,
although the Spaniards have seen none.
The tears of horror in their eyes
reflect the fury of the sun
lifting the curtain over dawn.
They know that Orlov’s Reds were there:
a priest lies bludgeoned on the lawn,
and Christian Spain lies struck at prayer.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Christ suffering for the sins of nobility and the revenge of mobs.