The man, on the last day, shot down in his garden,
Feel extreme fear that death reveals to him;
His heart is a sea that straightens and surgeth,
In poignant throes of almost dead chest.
Everything that was vanity, now is discomfort.
The whole ship of illusion shatters and crumbles
Under the fatal waves of stormy untamed,
Poor heart, which is shipwrecked without port.
How much time in this world, dark and uncertain direction,
Man lives to grope in the darkness that is created!
Around, everything is going on the dark road,
In dread of waiting anxiety that comes close! …
Among the throes of death, breast bloodless and open,
Wretch Wayfaring Man of Grief rebelled to his guide,
Despairs, weeps, longs and babbles
The supreme prayer of pain from his desert.
In this great sorrow, the poor soul, between the rubble,
Feel the Master of Love showing his shoulders
The greatness of the cross that illuminates and succor;
The world is the darkness that buries the chimera …
And in the dark Bulcao only Jesus perseveres,
As the immortal light of love that never dies.
Author: Alberto de Oliveira