I don’t know which paths the Apostles took

They converged in Ephesus that day

Silence in the disciple’s dwelling

to whom Jesus bequeathed his Mother in his will.

You and I tiptoed along, 

so that the dove does not take flight

and leave us stranded and in exile

crying from being orphaned.

I don’t know by what paths death also arrived,

disguised as a dream, made up with indigo,

to the point that we may never know

if the Virgin dies or only meditates,

keeping inside, as usual,

the last mystery

that he took with him to the heights.

Days ago his eyes –the first–

They have already been repatriated in the skies.

No hand dared 

to draw back the curtains of her eyelids

when there is no light left this side of the border.

Her lips, slightly parted, murmured

indecipherable delusions down here…

However

Nobody thinks they can leave now,

when the light passes over her skin

in divine and contagious ecstasy.

(Pedro already has the sentence ready:

“It’s so nice here,

Let’s make our stores!”)

Just her smile – never disembodied –

half of the sky and half of us still,

It seems to be lagging behind us.

We never saw it turn off. 

this bonfire that burned without being consumed

like the burning bush of Moses in the desert.

Not a single flap of wings touched our temples

Not a snap broke the silence.

Not even Handel’s hallelujahs…

neither earthquakes nor bells:

a simple and straightforward event,

without breaks, just like one more step…

I don’t know in what blink of an eye it got out of hand.

We looked at each other

at the edge of her immaculate flesh

-impossible morsel from the tomb-,

on the shores of her blessed womb

flooded with light and transparency…

that was gradually coming loose.

“When I am lifted up on high,

I will draw everyone to myself.”

And she couldn’t resist.

the imperious force of your magnet

(It is right that you take, Lord, all that is yours:

than the one that stood next to the Cross

seated also be by your throne).

A perfume is being poured around the room

-the scent of mystical roses, without a doubt-

and a Gregorian chant sung by angels in voice-over

From afar it barely touches the silence.

How eagerly I would grasp the hem of that cloak!

so that I could infiltrate, a clandestine stowaway,

in the regal abodes of the heavens!