Tu silencio, Señor, sabe a tormento
Que prolonga los bordes de la herida.
Hay una noche-noche renegrida
Donde todo es ausencia y descontento.
Vaga sin rumbo el alma y su lamento
Ciega los pasos hacia la salida.
La sed es honda y honda la dolida
Vaciedad sin consuelo ni alimento.
Las manos torpes pierden lo ya asido
La memoria no atisba en el pasado
Y hacia adelante todo es sin sentido.
¿Hasta cuándo, Señor, seré humillado
En esta oscuridad donde resido?
Soy hermano de Job, crucificado.
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