To Thomas Jouteux
In the dust, the falling night, she stands straight
On the threshold of the abyss, facing the eclipse,
It is the Mother of Sorrows.
Everything stops at the foot of the Tau in acacia
The wood of ignominy, which she contemplates,
Her Son on the cross,
These bloody feet, this flesh torn by nails.
She repeats what she had murmured when the angel’s wing brushed her:
‘So be it’.
She consents to death, to sacrifice,
The veil of the Temple, the lost sun.
God’s justice does not take Him from her,
It is she who gives Him.
The tears trickle like the blood on the wood.
Nazareth, Cana, Joseph’s workshop,
The dust and the acacia chips.
That is where it all took shape,
And on the lakeside paths, miraculous nets.
She stands straight, she prays at the edge of the chasm.
And the dead who arise in the night of three hours ,
The darkness of Friday.
The cries, the hatred then the noiseless abyss,
The immense love, the infinite times.
Mother of the Living,
Watch over us in these days
And up until the final breath.