Pope Leo XIV
A Cry to the Vicar of Christ
On the eighth of May—
in the year the world was wounded—
white smoke rose,
and the Spirit whispered:
Leo XIV.
Not a crown,
but a cross.
Not glory—
but Gethsemane.
Go now,
Holy Father,
to Gaza,
where God bleeds quietly
under shattered mosques.
A child cries without sound.
A mother digs without grave.
Hope is ash.
Peace is myth.
And still—
your hands are clean.
Go to the sons of empire—
tell them:
No more prayers dipped in petrol.
No more justice from jets.
No more peace purchased with pain.
And to Israel,
tell Benjamin:
God is not your sword.
He is your witness.
Every Palestinian child
is a gospel we’ve burned.
Every mother,
a Madonna without her Christ.
Go also to Congo. Sudan. Libya. Ukraine.
Do not wave.
Do not preach.
Walk.
Bleed.
Kneel.
Did you not hear Romero,
when the soil sang blood in El Salvador?
The Church was never meant
to hide behind stained glass.
Let the Vatican strip gold from its bones.
Let the cassock gather dust.
Let the Pope
become a man.
For when Pope Francis passed,
he whispered:
“Reality is more than ideas.”
And Gaza is real.
God weeps there still.
Let history write,
not of sermons,
but of a man in white
who saved God
in Gaza.
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