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Monday, September 09 2019 14: 27

The wedding at Cana

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What else could she but be proud

of him, who embellished what was simplest in her?

It was not the night itself - the solemn, living, immense -

as if he were beside himself when he appeared?


And that time he was lost, it hadn't ended

all in glory to him, how did he ever feel?

The wisest ears were not there

exchanged with the mouth? And it wasn't the house


as new in front of his voice? Ah,

hundreds of times, certainly,

she had refrained from letting her joy shine,

the one that came from him.

He followed him, and he was amazed.


But there, at that wedding banquet,

when suddenly the wine ran out, -

she looked at him and begged him to give a sign

and she didn't understand that he didn't want it.


And then he did it. She understood it later,

how she had pushed him on his path:

he was the man, now, of miracles,

and the bloody offering was decided,


unstoppable. Yes: it was written.

But was she prepared even then?

She: she had pushed him this far

in the blindness of one's own lightness.


Around the table full of fruits and vegetables

he shared his joy with others, and he didn't understand

that the water, where tears flow,

it had changed into blood for her, with wine.


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