Dispersing presence of the pain feel brightness,
the meager feast of crowded streets. A scorner
in decadence spits, "Crucify Him!" Blindness
feeds nails in palms where mother's heart is cornered.
Disgrace in blood shall overcome the tightness
of thorny crown and fill the eyes of mourners.
All of a sudden sharpness pins and Whiteness
shows dying pain and sends to lungs a warner.
Though not a single tongue or quill can utter
the blissful strut of death. The spear is striking
and from a wound the rose anointing trickles.
The sky, it thickens in dark-red as butter,
so washed away. The star-lamps wait for icons,
pan-de-muerto* dough ferments and stickles.
* pan-de-muerto – is a soft, Mexican sweet bread that is baked
for the traditional holiday called "The Day of the Dead"
Sonnet XXI
© Copyright: Юрий Лазирко, 2011
Свидетельство о публикации №111021508916
Свидетельство о публикации №111021508916
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