Silence is the language
proper to mysteries:
you, thrusting yourself into
the fractures of time
to heal its wounds,
allowing yourself
to be absorbed within
its newfound wholeness,
into a nearness that blurs
the distance of centuries.
And I, in this Calvary,
choose to be the thief
nailed on the wood of my miseries,
for pain is the language
proper to sin.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem