I cry for the world in your name, in the name you do not have, and I cry for man and his destiny, his tears, the metastases.
I cry through your closed windows; I cry for you, with you, god.
I cry with that god without a uniform, without a country or flag, for that god who has no name or skin color, while I cry in my hands, in my thoughts.
I cry virgin tears in an endless embrace, and the thousand silences fallen in the fire of one night; I cry, red, over the man who explodes in his creed.
I cry without letup and aimlessly, while I seek in one hundred years, perhaps one thousand, and then in one million, everything I do not know.
I cry the divine and that which intervenes, in order to understand and reveal that light, of your god, of mine, without a name.