Last night Jesus entered my cell.
Oh, how sad and how tall Christ seemed!
The moon was following Him into the cell
and made Him taller and sadder.
His hands looked like lilies on graves,
his eyes deep like forests.
The moon was shining with silver on His garments
silvering the old scars on His hands.
In amazement, I jumped from under the shabby blanket:
- Where do You come from, Lord, from what age?
Jesus gently raised a finger to His mouth
and signaled me to be quiet.
He sat down beside me on the mat:
- Put your hand on my wounds!
On His ankles were marks of nails and rust
as if He had worn chains once.
Sighing, He stretched His weary bones
on my mat with the leaves.
The moon shone, but the thick bars
stretched on His snow, like whips.
The cell looked like a mountain, like a head
and lice and rats were crawling around.
I felt my head falling on my hand
and I fell asleep for a thousand years...
When I woke from the deep slumber,
the straw smelled of roses.
I was in the cell and the moon was there,
only Jesus was nowhere to be found...
I stretched my arms, no one, silence.
I asked the wall: no answer!
Only the cold rays, sharp in the corners,
pierced me with their spear...
- Where are You, Lord? I yelled at the bars.
From the moon came smoke of ashes...
I felt my hands... and on my hands,
I found the marks of His nails.