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Land of the Holy Cross At my golden wedding anniversary, greedy as the grandchildren, I'm going to eat sweets. I will not look serene, like portraits of women who ate and spoke little. Because the monk killed himself in the thicket outside the abbey. It's been said before: There will be no consolation. And there was: music, poetry, strolls. Love has rhythms which are not those of sadness: the shape of waves, impulse, running water. Well, then—what do I say to the man, to the train, to the little boy waiting for me, to the myrtle tree blooming out of season? Contemplating the impossible makes you crazy. I'm a lowly tapeworm in God's intestine: Well, then—well, then—well, then? Where were the custodian, the steward, the gatekeeper? Where was the rest of the brotherhood when you went out, unlucky Brazilian boy, to meet that tree? I am my own enemy. Torturers go crazy in the end, eat excrement, hate their own obscene gestures; unjust regimes fester. While you were walking around in circles, divided soul, what was she doing, saint and sinner, our Mother Church? Promoting bingo, blessing new buildings, naturally, but still: she produced you—no one dares deny it— you and other saints who leave behind marked Bibles. u We carry within us our own death sentence." "Love one another." He who said: "Whosoever believeth in Me shall have everlasting life"— He, too, swung from a piece of wood like a fruit of scorn. Nothing, nothing that is human is grand. A little girl interrupts, pounding at the door, 5i asking for vine cuttings. My hair stands on end. Like a torturer I yank out the cutting, the eyes, the entrails of the intruder, and no better than Job I repent my nonsense. There's always someone to ask Judas which tree is best: lucid madmen, mad saints, those to whom more was given, the almost sublime ones. My biggest grandeur is to ask: Will there be consolation? These would fit in a thimble: my faith, my life, and my greatest fear which is traveling by bus. Temptation tests me and almost makes me happy. It's good to ask help of our Lord God of the Army, our God Who is a big mother hen. He tucks us under His wing and warms us. But first He leaves us helpless in the rain, so we'll learn to trust in Him and not in ourselves. 52 ...

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