Mary, Mother of those who suffer

Yesterday, May eleventh, while I was editing my manuscript on cinema, a melody reached my ears: Bach's "Ave Maria," and my spirit was ignited with mixed emotions. If there was a Hitler, there was also a Bach, capable of saving the entire German people with his love for the Creator.

"How is it possible that I have not celebrated you, that I have hidden the poem that I wrote to you with so much love by desire of my Lord? Oh, Mary! Mother of Jesus, beloved by God, His only wife, as the sacred Quran sings. I celebrate you on your day and I offer my praises to your infinite love to the world, because only you tame the fury of God before each and every one every day.

You are the one who, in a world that says we must be violent for our rights, takes care of the poor, the hungry, the mistreated woman, the despised child, the man without a job who trusts in your goodness. Oh, what pain! You granted me the privilege of seeing you afflicted by this unbelieving generation! Since then, I have not ceased to adore your son and the Creator God. You know how many persecutions I have endured and keep in silence for your love.

May the heavens sing to you always and especially tomorrow, Mother's Day! May friends and enemies, believers or atheists, know of your maternal love, extended to all men, women, and animals, without distinction of race, creed, sex, without regard to their sins.

Happy day, Holy Virgin, my protector, to whom I have always and without shame turned in my greatest sorrows! You who led me to Jesus and from Jesus to the glory of contemplating the Creator."

Mary, Mother of those who suffer,

'Twas thou who guided me to thy Son,

When, indoctrinated by Jesuits' lore,

I reduced my love for Jesus to Arian heresy.

'Twas thou who led me to Nevada's land,

When in the USA no one sought my hire,

There, thou didst open my sole film script,

Upon the page where Felipe II trod in Portugal.

Portugal's verdant paths thou didst unveil,

Saving me from bureaucratic walls,

Facilitating my work visa's grant,

On August 6th, 1998, in the United States.

From Philadelphia at seven I did depart,

And reached Newark by the ninth hour,

With twenty applicants waiting in line,

Urgency compelled me to jump ahead. 

A just man accused me rightly,

Yet, upon seeing me, he perceived not my distress,

But rather thy loving presence bright,

"No problem," he said, in awe inspired.

"The Embassy in New York needs authorization,"

The consul told me; my plane departed at four,

Hastily I left at eleven in my car,

The one a jealous companion had wrecked.

And to thee I prayed, lest my journey falter,

Thou didst clear the highways in my way,

Though unfamiliar with New York, thou guided me,

To the Embassy in the heart of Manhattan.

To thee I prayed each and every day,

Finding parking on a street unknown,

Where no one else could find a space,

And then a lady I did see approach.

Fearful, as oft before, of rejection's sting,

Yet this lady smiled and listened close,

"Where lies the Portuguese Embassy?"

"Just in the middle of that very block," she replied.

At noon I entered, quickly served I was,

"Strange that there's no work today,"

The clerk remarked, stamping my Colombian passport,

Immediately I rushed to find the Lincoln Tunnel.

Apprehensive of heavy traffic's throng,

Yet on that Thursday, streets were miraculously empty,

I entered the tunnel with no car beside,

And took uncongested highways speeding on. 

No guard stopped me as I rushed along,

By two-thirty, in Philadelphia I arrived,

When my car I surrendered to my creditors.

Without hearing the call of dishonest friends

"You'll miss your flight," Azucena and Coralie repeated,

Yet within my chest, hope thou didst infuse,

At three-twenty I stood at the counter,

"Lucky there's a delay," the clerk said.

Onto the plane, in first row I sat,

As dawn broke on August the seventh, Paris shone,

By month's end, by train, to Portugal I came,

To investigate thy apparitions in Fátima.

"The sun detached before eighty thousand men,"

An atheist, hardened by science, said to me,

"But 'twas not by the Virgin nor God, but a UFO,"

In Fátima, I did penance on my knees.

Without knee pads, my legs became raw,

For Colombia, the world, and humanity,

But most of all for my love for thee,

Then I penned my first novel.

One night I saw thee in great distress,

Channels marked upon thy face,

With many tears, much weeping,

"Why dost thou cry?" I asked.

"None believe anymore," thou sobbed,

"What can I do?" I inquired,

"Read chapter fifteen of Acts,"

I awoke with my mind enlightened.

"To be Christian suffices," they concluded,

In the Acts of the Apostles, chapter fifteen,

Paul and Peter, "do no harm to others,

And cease from frequenting brothels."

My battered beliefs returned,

The garden I cherished, once thought lost,

The oasis that protected me from flagellations,

Which for ten years I endured in childhood.

"New Manhattan Soirées" was written,

By a theologian seeking to define God,

And to Shakespeare's land thou didst take me,

So that they may see me walk on its verdant fields.

There I conversed with its philosophers,

And explained that atheism too is Christian,

If acted without intrigue and cruelty,

Ultimately, they asked me to define God.

They published my philosophical commentaries,

Forged in years of diligent studies.

The Crisis of Atheism and, for an Encyclopedia,

published in Oxford, The Definition of God.

For thee, I have been honest and sincere,

For thee, I have suffered persecution and torment,

Disdain, family humiliations,

A divorce instigated by French politicians.

Today I sing to thee and offer gratitude, Mother,

For protecting me throughout my journey's course,

As I sing, a message appears on my screen,

"We're going to kill you," and I fear for them.

Who, under thy care, fears such threats?

For, as François Villon once sang,

Thou art the empress of most exquisite heavens,

And of these, our infernal plains.

Thine is the fate of every human being,

Thine the care for this world,

Thine are the birds and beasts, thine the children,

Thine is the end of suffering and the pandemic.

Well, in your lap God finds comfort

And it is because of you that Jesus and I are already one

On my forty-third birthday,

Issac and Vikram took me to a sacred tree,

Here, we know that trees are homes

Inhabited by goddesses, they explained,

Presenting me a noble banyan to see.

I asked them to capture the moment in a photo,

In my heart, certainty of thy presence did burn,

Suddenly, Vikram's face displayed fear,

As a rounded light behind my head me

shinned casting a maiden's perfect form.

"Fear not," I said, seeing it, "'tis our Mother,

Who restored my faith in Jesus' embrace,

The Holy Virgin Mary, in infinite love,

With the Child God nestled in her arms." 

By thy grace, heaven opened new paths,

Guiding me to my spiritual journey's core,

Thou didst lead me to holy places,

Where thy love and presence I felt more and more.

Within my soul, thy light did shine,

And the darkness of despair thou didst dispel,

Thou art love incarnated, the guiding star,

The loving Mother who appeases Heaven's wrath

To thee I dedicate these sacred verses,

In homage and love, forevermore,

Thou art the protector of those who suffer,

Mary, our Mother, whom we adore.