AMBUSH

The sun was setting behind the barracks, the beggars were looking for water but all the pitchers in the town of Cana had been knocked over, the women wept as they departed in the yellow twilight, as for me, driven out, upon the mount I served my wine to thieves and pseudomartyrs, while the cross had already begun to cut into the bottom of my coat.
Who shall I love? Who shall I confess to? Only God can boast that he heard me complaining, I drank all the slime in the sewer where they had thrown me, my intestines turned into roads carrying triumphal cars, I took out my wings and nailed them to the old woman who was being buried all on her own in a small decrepit case full of ashes, a sparrow in the tree nearby—remember me when the time comes.
The prisoners’ handiwork was drying on the fireplace, it was autumn and the fields were deserted, I could hear the steps of the cart drivers as I devoured the stolen hay.
I then beheld the great scaffold, which I had to climb, not knowing if I would be crowned king or tumble into the basket of the beheaded.