I was once excommunicated by the bishops
once I understood that my pious path had muddy feet
I was in the street, and in the gutters full of water,
not in the path of priests nor in the pastoral career

I am a heretical lover of God
and celibate like a monk
I detach the altars in my judgment,
I end up more in side streets
that in sacred naves and pulpits

because the churches smell like rancid kerosene,
to crazy old women and to owners who are administrators of the faith
who mourned Christ
forever, like closing the door
to that living god
whose fate they prefer quiet and without resurrection

because I have been expelled more than three times from all the temples
because since my baptism God moves in me,
but I always get them to throw me out

The ladies burn like witches because
of their sins and their neighing.
while the rosary beads
They say yes, that peace and joy
so that they stay happy
and calm

I am a Christian heretic and perhaps
That's why Jesus knows me about Samaria.
dressing saints on the corners
of this life that others prefer
hide in the liturgy and rites.