Sit beside me, Silence - here is bread and wine's shadow,
it is not glasses that ring here, but the pulse of the night.
Where the tablecloth under my hands is cold and icy,
I sweep the crumbs of words away, not to wound a phrase.
Let us keep silence about fear dressed in prayers,
about pain that learned to become the light of morning;
about names that fight their last battles in the ashes
and rise again only in the haze's breath.
Let us keep silence about the end - not as a black cup,
but as a crossing where the body's form dissolves;
that every "I" is only a candle on the threshold,
and wind is only a sign that fate has burned to nothing.
Let us keep silence about the Creator - not from lack of faith,
but from excess of presence in every crumb;
where lips sleep - there it is the heart that speaks,
and bread breaks, like truth, without a cry.
Sit, Silence, beside me. Drink this single moment.
Let the word rest, like a sword in night's scabbard.
For only at this table, through the flowing stillness,
do we hear Eternity looking us in the eyes.