The Pain of Ignacio Loyola

While he waited his turn to go in,
Ignacio Loyola howled with pain.
His leg had been festering for a second week now.
And no one could help him.
Not the barber in the next village,
nor the monastery librarian — a handy man.

Though the pain kept growing,
Ignacio Loyola tried to go in.
More people came, took him under the arms,
helped him hobble to the door,
held it open while he stepped across the threshold

and right after that he fell on the stone floor,
because they had let go of him.
Before he could light a candle
or look up at the dome
(those domes ought to have been flat)
or greet Him.

The pain wrapped round him like a great slimy bubble,
swelled a little more, then throbbed in a steady rhythm.
Many hushed lips were already moving in prayer.
But no one thought to mention him in theirs.

As at a carnival, before his eyes there flared
the fireworks of the past,
the quiet waters of a mountain lake
and the smile of a witch from Córdoba.
All of them brought only pain.

No other thought in their hands.