Porque Le Clavaron?
A man walks old dirt roads,
Hot wind never touches his robes.
His skin worn and wrinkled with wisdom,
Dark eyes pierce to my heart.
Opens an old book,
Points to my name,
To a story not yet written.
He leaves me in desert heat,
Rows of cracked adobe buildings.
I hide in shade, drink and ponder.
Was he real? Or just another story.
People speak of this stranger
Like tumbleweed, he comes and goes,
To this little town called Movas.
Young men are Pharisees,
That sent this stranger to his death,
Whipped by twigs, till blood flows.
At night they parade his statue,
A man nailed to a cross.
They chant, Porque le clavaron en esa cruz?
“Why did they nail him to the cross?”