The Three Circles Poem by Murilo Mendes

I do not find consolation in churches.
You, monk, cannot tell me what Christ will say.
You have gathered the least part of Him…
And His body and His blood
Do not make life circulate through my body and blood.
You, woman, a limited creature like me,
You receive the best part of my cult.
(I am aware of my error!)
I love you for your elegance, for your lie,
for your theatrical life.
And I cannot even rest my head on the stone of your body…
Only you, Santa, never fail me for a single moment!