Jail


Here are the men in jail

-- indolents, bored, defeated --

searching light and life through a high window,

awaiting for a sun-up that always fades,

and hoping only the clemency of the calendar.



The guilty men of crime, of sin, of viciousness

whose lives are the dusty barren leaves of the tree;

the men with every treachery, with every evil,

with every dirtiness and depravation and fault.



O imprisoned God, could it be even possible

that beneath the rotten leaves of all this autumn

can be found a pink, pure petal of innocence?

I know it may happen; You knew it too.




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