There are such blows in life, so strong... I don’t know!
Blows like God’s hatred; as if before them,
the undercurrent of everything suffered
were welling up in the soul... I don’t know!
There are few of them; but they’re there... They open dark trenches
in the toughest face and in the strongest back.
Perhaps they’ll turn out to be the foals of barbarous Attilas;
or the black heralds sent us by death.
They’re the deep falls of the Christs of the soul,
of some adorable faith blasphemed by Destiny.
Those bloody blows are the cracklings
of some bread that burns us from the oven door.
And man... poor man... poor man! He turns his eyes, as
when someone taps us on the shoulder;
he turns his wild eyes, and all he’s lived
wells up, like a puddle of guilt, in his face.
There are such blows in life, so strong... I don’t know!
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