The Blessed Lady Who Listens

In the church of my village of Brangues there is a chapel in the
Because it’s too warm outside, into its nave each day at five
o’clock I go.
A man can’t keep on walking all the time, so he might as well
visit the Good Lord’s House:
Outside the sun is blazing away, and the road screams across the
square as if it wanted the whole world to arouse.
But inside, the Holy Mother before me, for me, she is like a
glacier, so fresh and pure,
All white with her son in her lovely gown, all white, it’s so long
I can see only the tips of her feet for sure.
Here is that fellow again, all overflowing with desire
and worrying:
Ah, I’ll never have time enough to tell you everything.
But she, lowering her eyes, with a face tender and bland,
Looks at the words on my mouth like someone who listens and
gets ready to understand.