Poema Do Menino Jesus

At noon on the end of spring, I had a dream like
a photograph: I saw Jesus Christ come down to Earth.
He came down the hill, but once again
a child, running and rolling in the grass
Picking flowers to throw away, laughing so
it could be heard from afar.
He had escaped from heaven. He was too much ours
to pretend to be the Second Person of the Trinity.
One day when GOD was sleeping and the Holy Spirit
was flying, He went to the box of miracles and
stole three.
With the first one He made sure no one knew
He had escaped; with the second one He created
Himself eternally human and a child; and with the third one He
created a Christ eternally on the cross and left Him nailed
to the cross in heaven, serving as a model for the others.
Then He fled to the Sun and descended through the first
ray He caught.
Today He lives in my village, with me. He is a
beautiful child, with a natural laugh.
He wipes his nose with his right arm, splashes in puddles
picks flowers, likes them, forgets.
Throws stones at donkeys, picks fruits in orchards,
and runs away crying and shouting from the dogs.
Just because He knows they don't like it, and everyone finds
it amusing, He chases after the girls carrying jugs on their heads and lifts their skirts.
He taught me everything. He taught me to look
at things. He points out all the colors in the flowers and shows me how funny
stones are when you hold them in your hand and look at
them slowly.
We get along so well with each other in the company of everything
that we never think of each other. We live together, the two of us
with an intimate agreement, like the right hand and the left.
At dusk we play with five small stones on
the doorstep. Serious, as befits a GOD
and a poet. As if each stone were the entire Universe
and therefore a very great danger to let it fall
on the ground.
Then I tell Him stories of things only
of men. And He smiles, because everything is incredible. He laughs
at kings and those who are not kings. And he pities hearing
about wars and trades.
Then He falls asleep and I carry Him in my arms into
my house, lay Him on my bed, undressing Him
slowly, as if following a completely human and maternal ritual until He is naked.
He sleeps inside my soul. Sometimes He wakes up at night, plays with my dreams. Turns some upside down,
puts some on top of others, and claps, alone,
smiling at my dreams.
When I die, Little One, let me be the child, the smallest one, take me in Your arms, take me inside Your
house. Lay me on your bed. Undress my tired and
human being. Tell me stories in case I wake up so I
can fall asleep again, and give me Your dreams to play with.