The monk his thorn life

Longer the road became, but what is my life worth, walking in this strange that puts a sinister cold on my feet, I search my mind in the most confined of doubt, but I really see Christ flourish in the field placed in my hand on that forgotten monk.

With all my sincerity I am humbled by the glory of death, but my faith does not forsake me even if they are in the grave of my soul.

I am the monk who drinks wine to see my sad theater of misery, that is my work with my hands, sowing the divine faith of Christ, following the love of those new flowers that will find their way, I will have another glass of wine to continue walking, to wait for the glory of God and his will to be with him.