a fading reddish sand colored fresco
on the wall of the renaissance church
Christ's hands breaking bread are already blackening
his face is cracked -
each year the fissure deepens

above the heads
near the cupola
a stained-glass window of thin glass - time
broke several panes - they are now replaced
by plain glass
through the plain glass shines a plain winter
through the red - a red one:
the maple's red branches still stretch to caress
the church's tin head

I kneel
head tilted back look at the vapor
rising from my mouth -
I do not pray:
I am sixteen years old -
too much to still believe
too little to believe
again

my mother's soprano
reverberating against the church's arch
casts about
until the highest note freezes

to the red winter

Christ looks at me
from the ancient fresco
and sees through my thoughts even
my erotic dreams, filling the space between church and school

I kneel in the cold and half-empty nave
almost near the vault of heaven
a bird settled in my mother's throat
sings

from the other side
of these walls
echoes the roar of motorcycles -
my friends the centaurs
search for death:

I see myself dead beneath a heavy, still moaning
beast - its stinking blood
pours onto my face
onto the snow
onto the red winter
gasoline

squinting Christ from the peeling fresco
wants to tell me something

I kneel with my head tilted back
I do not pray

© Alvydas Šlepikas
Translated by Jonas Zdanys