quinta-feira, 22 de outubro de 2009

  • ON THE MASSACRE OF THE CHRISTIANS IN BULGARIA

    Christ, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bones
    Still straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?
    And was Thy Rising only dreamed by her
    Whose love of Thee for all her sin atones?

    For here the air is horrid with men’s groans,
    The priests who call upon Thy name are slain,
    Dost Thou not hear the bitter wail of pain
    From those whose children lie upon the stones?

    Come down, O Son of God! incestuous gloom
    Curtains the land, and through the starless night
    Over Thy Cross a Crescent moon I see!

    If Thou in very truth didst burst the tomb
    Come down, O Son of Man! and show Thy might
    Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!
    ----- Oscar Wilde

    Imagem: Boris Vallejo

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