A Árvore

In that time

It was a tall tree with an erect bearing
Standing out from afar in the savanna landscape that surrounded it
Its age was never known for sure
As its duration was not counted in days
And invested in that secularism
It was possessed of an expectation
In the form of predestination

It had acclimatized in that bare place
No longer feeling the weathering of winds blown from the gorge
But always hiding the fear of dull blows
From penetrating and gleaming objects
Used by small figures in motion
Everything was part of its destiny
Releasing stars into the infinite

It surrendered to the contemplation of peace in the field of the moonlit night
Yearning to reach every dawn
And glimpse long plains between horizons
Ignited by the glow of the rising sun
Dreaming of immersing in silence
In the inert afternoons of waiting

One day, when the dawn was tinting the sky purple
Alerted by its fear that the night was asleep
Deep down it felt that the time had come
And projected itself, then, in vain, out of the earth
And soon realized it was rooted there
Paralyzed into space
And behold, a strong wind swayed it

Suddenly
It was as if a hundred rays had struck it
Penetrating deeply into its trunk
Its leaves falling as in a farewell
And at that moment it fell and kept falling
Groaning and cracking until the end
Then chopped into pieces
They took it to be cut up

On the next day that remaining tree
In the form of a log paraded
Through the streets of Jerusalem to the mount
And Christ died nailed in its arms