Under the light of the chandelier
Wilson Max Costa Teixeira
Celebrations soak the skies in my twilight hours – full of shadows, full of lights. It is a pity that there is not a choir of winged angels chanting glorifications when I can have heavenly visions like those I have before the holy scriptures.
The lighted clouds pervade with that usual ephemerality, they look like heifers that some shepherd has lost – but they only exist in my daydreams. And I, getting out of the fog, I get out of the chair by the shelves; I take the book, light the chandelier and
I leaf through the illuminated pages of this changing halo; and without realizing it, the light and shadow alternate, revealing the meaning of each letter of the old text. In these divine moves that delirium does not belie, the images that make me rapturate stroke me. I see ruins, I see the land and the raised Christ, held by the arms, passed out on the tree; meanwhile, Satan – sitting very still on some sour mountain – throws pebbles from above to distract himself.
The demons always seemed to me to be strayers, they do nothing: some itch, others lying on the grass disturb some living people.
Everything runs smoothly: heaven, earth, some Romans playing with dices. The uplifted Christ, nailed to the tree, had one of its flanks corrupted a little while ago because an awkward kid, who carried the arms of a Roman soldier, tripped over a stone
and unintentionally buried the spear in the deceased; but it doesn’t matter, that the dead body is already quite annihilated; her hands and feet have already torn their hammers at the time of the crucifixion, even her face was deformed like anything after she died. Satan still throws pebbles from the top of the mountain; makes faces of boredom; (the sun dies among the hills); Satan lies down, voluptuously drowning himself on the rocks, barely disguising the priapism that always affects him in the late afternoon; put on your stomach, the red fur powders; a drowsiness hits him with the breeze while writhing on the rocks, but he does not hide mischievous eyes when he sees a sheep hitting a slope. The Christ has already taken him to the grave of one Joseph, a native of Arimateia; there the exalted dead man was stowed.