I speak of barefooted mothers
That loiter among the ruins
Of cities consumed by fire
Of corpses piled in the streets
And pimp-poets
Who are frightened at night
On their very threshold.

I speak of endless nights
When the light diminishes
As day comes in
Of overloaded lorries
And of steps
On the wet pavement

I speak of prison yards
Of the tears of those sentenced to death
But above all I speak
Of the fishermen
Who have abandoned their nets
To follow on his footsteps
And when He proved a coward
They did not rest
And when He betrayed them
They never renounced
And when He was glorified

They turned their eyes to the other side
They spat at their faces
They crucified them
But they always serene
Took to a road with no end
Without their vision
Being obscured or bent
Upright and solitary
In the terrible solitude of the crowd.