Invitatio Silentii

Sit, Silence, nearby – here is bread and the shadow of wine,
It is not glasses that ring here, but the pulse of nocturnal time.
Where the tablecloth under my hands is cold and icy,
I sweep away the crumbs of words, so as not to wound the phrase.

Let us be silent about the fear that has dressed itself in prayers,
About the pain that has learned to become the light of the morning;
About names that lead their final battles in the ashes,
And rise again only in the exhaled mist.

Let us be silent about the end – not as a black chalice,
But as a transition where the form of the body melts;
About the fact that every “I” is but a candle on the threshold,
And the wind is only a sign that fate has burned to the ground.

Let us be silent about the Creator – not from a lack of faith,
But from an excess of presence in every crumb;
Where lips sleep – there the heart speaks,
And the bread is broken, like truth, without a cry.

Sit, Silence. Drink this single moment.
Let the word rest, like a sword in the scabbard of the night.
For only at this table, through the flowing silence,
Do we hear how Eternity looks into our eyes.