teacher Beatriz Retz chalkboard drawing
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Resurrection
Over the silence of lights out,
the night slowly spreads its dark cloak;
and there under it, far away
from the prying eyes of men,
she prepares the next and vehemently
bubbling water,
burst of plants,
awakening of souls.
And when she's gone
with a slight gesture lifting the shadow, unveiling life,
the day, still trembling, slips over the horizon,
and the sun comes up,
the brightening, flooding sun arises!
And in the order of time it is revealed
the eternal light,
the eternal bloom!
***
The Passion of Man
– Father, forgive me, because I still don't know what I'm doing.
I have heard the truth in Me teaching me the way of the blessed Sound.
Yet my stubborn warrior hand, child-spirit,
didn't you try to cut off my ear with which you heard?
“Put your sword in its scabbard” – I said –
“For then shall I not drink the cup that is already on my table?
This is the way and I am ready.”
– Father, forgive me, because I still don't know what I'm doing.
There are so many of my voices fighting the truth in Me:
“Are you the Son of the blessed Sound?”
"I am."
“Do you think you are King of this land that is ours?”
“You said so.”
“For then put this crown on your head,
cover yourself with this purple robe
and put on your forehead this sign of what you think you are,
blasphemous spirit!
You hear your own voices as they fight you,
how do they scourge and mistreat you?”
– Father, forgive me, because I still don't know what I'm doing.
My kingdom is not like that.
To be a king is to be a servant.
Ah, how this crown hurts me,
braided by all my hard and petty thoughts.
And this cloak drowns out the rising freedom of the true Sound in me...
– Son, this is the mantle of the deluded king you imagine yourself to be.
Now you can feel that he weighs like a log on your shoulders.
Take it a little longer.
You are still bound to him by the very law of the stones in the way.
– Father, the robe is thick.
I didn't see it well and now I do.
It weighs, yes, and hurts the shoulder,
but the blessed Sound resounded closer
and made it light for a moment...
– Patience, Son, the time is near.
listen:
your multiple voice already laments your little lost kingdom
or condemn you for the way you pursue.
– Father, forgive me, because I still don't know what I'm doing.
I didn't see myself so attached to this wood, to this mantle...
It merges into the earth's floor like a log
and my hands, my feet are nailed to it...
I can't act,
fulfill my and your free Will;
only to my small desires attached.
My head, too, is so oppressed by the crown,
that I can only think with the dull Thoughts of the old man.
O Father, forgive, but the truth in Me feels lonely and abandoned.
– Son, she was abandoned,
but by the murmur of your own multiple voices
and by the cry of the sovereignty you imagined you had over them.
It's the time.
Hear the silence in You, hear only the blessed Sound.
- Father, into your hands I deliver my truth
and I will draw all paths to this path.
My Quest is consummated.
Nonetheless,
how to get rid of this wood, this cloak,
of this crown fixed on me?
- Son, courage!
Lancet the chest with warrior strength
and from it he feels your Love flowing into the earth.
He will let you go.
He will lower you to the ground,
where your old self will take root
and will give you, like a plant, the experience you have had.
You will be reborn from her,
the new,
the translived,
the true being of the blessed Sound.
(Contemplating the image of the crucified Christ – Semana Santa, 1999)
***
Contemplating Christ the Redeemer from Corcovado
– O Christ the Redeemer, my bent over
feeling of love at the foot of the stone
seeks to serve love in the blind shadow
of not knowing or being. search, entangled
in the slow challenge of these years,
serve love, however badly tamed,
more undisciplined, hidden and late
of what was desired in Your plans.
But close to the foot of the stone, love I lay down,
without cares, without rites and without dreams,
knowing the strict love, though hidden,
that even in these inactive rocks,
resembling stops and passives,
wise circles, suns, weave Your form.
(Rio, 1968)
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