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It was not the curse that made him leave,
but the silence in the eyes of the Beloved.
There, in the moment when the wine turned too red,
and the bread lost the taste of forgiveness,
Judas understood that God
cannot be bought

but can be sold.

Thirty pieces of silver,
heavy as a mother’s silence after her son’s death,
cold as the hand that no longer reaches out
when you collapse
under the weight of choice.

He was not evil,
only too human
to forgive the light
that asked for nothing.

He kissed Him not like a friend,
but like a wound
that could not be spoken.
That kiss was not betrayal,
but a desperate attempt
to stop Him
from becoming more than what a heart of flesh can grasp.

And perhaps he never meant to lose Him,
only to make Him remain man
a little longer,
one more miracle,
one more night without a cross.

But God does not negotiate
with fear,
nor with love shattered in the corner of a left eye.
He walks all the way to the end,
even when Judas weeps
in the tree where fruit no longer grows,
only questions.

And between good and evil,
Judas was the bridge,
burned at both ends,
so that we
could cross
without falling.

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