This week, eternity descends from wounded skies,
And crashes like lightning into our humdrum lives.
We are forced, at length, to decipher seemingly
Obscure symbols, hymns and signs; which indeed, in
Our glazed, modern eyes, belong to some other time.
Flesh equates to bread; blood is conflated with wine.
For this solemn week speaks of profound human pain,
And life's redemption, like the healing April rain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem