I can not stop being a poet
when listening to sing those wonders
to our Mother…
I can not stop being better devoted,
to the feeling, to vibrate, to get excited,
when you recite those verses,
in our White Dove…
What ephemeral is this wound,
without feeling it with Faith…!
What fleeting is this weeping,
without wiping it in Her holy cape…!
What valleys of tears,
illuminated only by Her eyes,
that as stars,
iluminate our sad evenings…!
What life and sweetness,
and our hope…!
That exile of this fall,
until She will show us Her smile…!
What is the meaning of this road,
without Her blessed promises!
How many hearts pierced like Hers,
for the pain of this pantomime!
Friday of sorrows,