Sin duda una de las manifestaciones más elegantes del misticismo católico es el Miércoles de Ceniza, día que marca el comienzo de la cuaresma (eternidad mercurial).

Desde los 12 años decidí atender el pulsante llamado que sentía hacia una especie de paganismo espiritual. Ello implicaba trazar, con  una mezcla de entre cautela y firmeza, un velo entre mi desarrollo metafísico y la tradición católica que cobijaba el entorno familiar que me recibió en esta vida: dibujar una cierta distancia con la mayoría de ritos propios de la religión de la cruz. Sin embargo, había una de las manifestaciones católicas que me generaban una especie de ineludible seducción: el Miércoles de Ceniza.

Más allá del contexto histórico y religioso de esta fecha y de su determinado simbolismo, del cual poco conozco, la poética sincronía del miércoles (el día de la semana que mejor me trata) con un elemento que desde mi punto de vista podría considerarse como ícono de la melancolía y la transmutación, la ceniza, hacen de esta fecha un ingrediente que celosamente he defendido entre los ingredientes de mi credo personal.

Pero más allá de mi atracción hermenéutica por esta fecha, existe otro elemento que termina por gestar en mí una plácida devoción ante esta práctica anual: la fonética. Y aunque no descarto que el enamoramiento sonoro que me produce el pronunciar “Miércoles de Ceniza” pudiese ser una especie de obsesión o fetiche personal, lo cierto es que no puedo dejar de rendirle tributo en esta micro-crónica que hoy, tal vez por razones terapeúticas, decidí compartir con la gente de Pijama Surf.

Como complemento incluyo un enlace wikipediano para aquellos que deseen conocer más sobre el tecnicismo de esta celebración y, para equilibrar, también incluyó un poema de T. S. Eliot dedicado a esta sensual fecha que tributa al espíritu unificado, al infinito renacimiento (aquí la versión en español de Ezequiel Zaidenwerg).



Because I do not hope to turn again

Because I do not hope

Because I do not hope to turn

Desiring this man’s gift and that man’s scope

I no longer strive to strive towards such things

(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)

Why should I mourn

The vanished power of the usual reign?


Because I do not hope to know

The infirm glory of the positive hour

Because I do not think

Because I know I shall not know

The one veritable transitory power

Because I cannot drink

There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is

  nothing again


Because I know that time is always time

And place is always and only place

And what is actual is actual only for one time

And only for one place

I rejoice that things are as they are and

I renounce the blessèd face

And renounce the voice

Because I cannot hope to turn again

Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something

Upon which to rejoice


And pray to God to have mercy upon us

And pray that I may forget

These matters that with myself I too much discuss

Too much explain

Because I do not hope to turn again

Let these words answer

For what is done, not to be done again

May the judgement not be too heavy upon us


Because these wings are no longer wings to fly

But merely vans to beat the air

The air which is now thoroughly small and dry

Smaller and dryer than the will

Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.


Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death

Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.


Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree

In the cool of the day, having fed to sateity

On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained

In the hollow round of my skull. And God said

Shall these bones live? shall these

Bones live? And that which had been contained

In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:

Because of the goodness of this Lady

And because of her loveliness, and because

She honours the Virgin in meditation,

We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled

Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love

To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.

It is this which recovers

My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions

Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn

In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.

Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.

There is no life in them. As I am forgotten

And would be forgotten, so I would forget

Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said

Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only

The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping

With the burden of the grasshopper, saying


Lady of silences

Calm and distressed

Torn and most whole

Rose of memory

Rose of forgetfulness

Exhausted and life-giving

Worried reposeful

The single Rose

Is now the Garden

Where all loves end

Terminate torment

Of love unsatisfied

The greater torment

Of love satisfied

End of the endless

Journey to no end

Conclusion of all that

Is inconclusible

Speech without word and

Word of no speech

Grace to the Mother

For the Garden

Where all love ends.


Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining

We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,

Under a tree in the cool of day, with the blessing of sand,

Forgetting themselves and each other, united

In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye

Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity

Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.


At the first turning of the second stair

I turned and saw below

The same shape twisted on the banister

Under the vapour in the fetid air

Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears

The deceitul face of hope and of despair.


At the second turning of the second stair

I left them twisting, turning below;

There were no more faces and the stair was dark,

Damp, jaggèd, like an old man’s mouth drivelling, beyond repair,

Or the toothed gullet of an agèd shark.


At the first turning of the third stair

Was a slotted window bellied like the figs’s fruit

And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene

The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green

Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.

Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,

Lilac and brown hair;

Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind

over the third stair,

Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair

Climbing the third stair.


Lord, I am not worthy

Lord, I am not worthy

 but speak the word only.


Who walked between the violet and the violet

Whe walked between

The various ranks of varied green

Going in white and blue, in Mary’s colour,

Talking of trivial things

In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour

Who moved among the others as they walked,

Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs


Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand

In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary’s colour,

Sovegna vos


Here are the years that walk between, bearing

Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring

One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing


White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.

The new years walk, restoring

Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring

With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem

The time. Redeem

The unread vision in the higher dream

While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.


The silent sister veiled in white and blue

Between the yews, behind the garden god,

Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke

  no word


But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down

Redeem the time, redeem the dream

The token of the word unheard, unspoken

Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew

And after this our exile

Twitter del autor: @paradoxeparadis / Lucio Montlune 

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