The Gospel of the Defeat

On the wooden table of the world, God forgot His book, A Gospel with torn pages, Its corners eaten by dried tears. He opened it once, But the letters evaporated Like the smoke of a candle that does not burn for anyone. Job is just a tired man now. He sits at the edge of the field and counts stones. "One for the lost child, one for the burnt prayer, One for the sky that closed its eyes." But the stones are not enough To fill the holes left by questions. There, in the dark corner of the sky, An angel shook its wings And sat down to cry. It no longer knows the song of the trumpet, It no longer knows what light means. All it knows is the cold, The cold that grows in silence, like a disease. The shadows would have said that God Is an old man drinking alone at the tavern of eternity, With a beard full of dirt and wine. The fireflies would have seen how the stars fall, Not to light the way, But to make it even darker. Man is just a worm crawling On the cracked skin of time. And yet, in this worm Hides a question, So heavy that the earth trembles: "Why did You give me eyes to see If the sky is closed?" The Apocalypse does not come with fire and blood, But with a bread that will not break, With a wine that refuses to turn into blood. It is quiet over all, A silence that crushes the heart Harder than any thunder. In the end, Salvation is nothing but a forgotten story, A smoke scattered in the thick air of pain. And all that remains is man, Sitting alone at the edge of the field, Asking the stones if they can still be saved.