In that garden I too slept that day,
each day I slept and I’m sleeping now,
in this night while you die in my place
not as a vague answer: as true man
I’m ashamed of you, I hid your face,
all this Europe hides you and your Cross.
We are stolid, so weakling and silly
in the black sludge of our bad brains
What kind of Easter does wait for us
on this red dawn when all evil bubbles?
Not the way I now think: yours, as always
like a white blackthorn blossom in winter
March, 26th 2016
Perhaps not happy at all, but holy Easter to all you