Looking, my Lord, at the man,
do not you regret all the
freedom bestowed on him?
Would not you like to melt his clay,
to let him wander in the desert,
to pull out his eyes and his tongue
until he stop lying
and the world ends?
           If you were seated on a cloud,
it would be so hard, my God, for you,
to contemplate the remains of you
creatures.
Life became dust.
And your man of dust,
destroying the life with his hands.
All your anger, my God, would has
a reason.
           But you fell too strongly in love.
You descended from your endless cloud.
You asked permission of a woman.
you were born, you were enslaved.
           And where are you going now,
after the bread and wine,
shared and consumed?.
           He was your son, the only one.
today you just are wainting.
To find yourself. to find me.
To, between us, save something.
Wine. Bread. Manacles.
           Are you cold, my God?
Have you somenthing to tell us?