I Don’t Agree, Lord
Lord, as you can see…
he looks like a flower among the flowers,
how calm he is, how peaceful!,
it’s as if I see him
playing in the street
with the friends he brought from school.
I see him, Lord,
running with great joy
after the little butterfly
that flutters gracefully
in the yard of my house.
I see him dressed as a cowboy,
with pistols and bandoliers well strapped on;
there’s no one braver than him
in the whole open field.
Today he plays the law,
tomorrow he’ll be an outlaw,
the day after, a soldier…
or maybe a sailor.
That is my beloved son,
whom I cared for with such devotion.
On Sundays, with his mother,
he would wake up very early:
—“We’re going to Mass!” —he’d proclaim,
while his lips would draw
a smile…
the smile that told my soul
I, too, should go.
Slowly,
we’d enter the temple
holding hands.
He’d bless himself with holy water
like a good little Christian.
—“My Daddy lives here, God” —he would say.
Poor little one!
And again, Lord,
he looks like a flower among the flowers.
After Mass,
his mother would go to the market,
and he, clever as he was,
would run to do us an errand.
Give him back to me, Lord, I demand it!
I want to feel a kiss
from my son’s sweet mouth.
I want to enjoy his tender mischiefs,
so I may rise to the heights
of happiness.
Lord, I beg you.
You who are just,
know that he was my dream,
a piece of my heart.
Now I see him…
so still, so quiet,
in his funeral box.
Is this the beginning of my end?
Virgin Mary,
you who know a mother’s love,
you who know the loneliness
that follows after they’re gone…
Have mercy on me, Lord!
I don’t agree,
my sorrow screams it,
my frenzy proclaims it.
I don’t agree
with your words:
“Let the little children come to me…”
