(Cont.d)A tree of peace is what you called me once.
You did anoint the foreheads of your children
with my own sacred oil of worthy wisdom,
lymph of my lymph, and then for every drop
that fell upon the living head of an angel
I felt inside the depths of my deep roots
an ant like stirring of love.
The clear dawn
out of my blue forehead kindled a serene
whirring of quails.
My arms were writhing
in longing for the sky.
Then Jesus Christ approached my frightened trunk
that night of sentence passing and he prayed.
In agony he prayed with bitterness
and on his forehead, wretched me, there flowed
the sweat of clouded blood. The stars were losing
their brightness one by one...
And on my limbs
each olive was a tear stained red with blood;
his prayer had become a lamentation:
─ Oh Father, keep this cup away from me! ─