The rest are glorious toast.

                                                                         You shouldn't taste meat from ash.
The skin tree, it's born again like phoenix.
Do you like raw lips on Palm Sunday?

Cups of oil and shabby bread.
New clothes lying on the floor
and rags above the body with his breath.

You must start the procession
before you've spent all your tears.
Flushed cheeks on Maundy Thursday,
irritated cheeks on Friday of Sorrows.

I remember when my religion teacher
corrected the capital letters in the word of the Lord.
You felt the creep until melancholia.

Holy-Shit happens in past Holy-Saturday within sin's life.
Under the cover of your kisses.
Now you're walking with a cross over your shoulders,
covered with black veil mantilla.

Shit happens and it is not only one Passion Week. It is so much.
Mostly cloudy in forecast of endless week.
Sometimes you need to distinguish between Holy Sunday and Passion Sunday.


(Estoy bastante aburrida de mi idioma y soy lo bastante insegura en otros como para lanzarme a sus brazos, perdonad los posibles falls. El resto son torrijas.
Muchísimas gracias desde aquí al filtro del texto, las catedrales se empiezan por algún pilar)