I can’t speak of your death, Jesus,
I only know that death comes out of blind violence
running like a flood from the palaces
of lust and luxury, from the inner surrender to the evil

swallowing every crumb of humanity. Death comes,
and it’s irreverence, the lack of piety mocking your sorrow,
ending with some “It was inevitable”,

remorselessly. Now that I behold your body

which the cross

turned to bread, I can hear the shriek between your sweetness
and the law of the world; give me the strength to keep doping.