Darkness slowly engulfs the square.
Night falls amidst a silent shift in
Who walks tall among the city’s streets
And alleyways: now from the shadows come
The forgotten ones, the old, the young,
The babes in arms – whose only home
Is here. For this is Rio, more than any
Other city, where poor and rich are
Neighbours close, but strangers. Such
Inequality of opportunity.
Across the square, ornate in neo-Gothic
Splendour, a mighty “holy” edifice awaits
A groom and bride: flowers in their beauty
And their thousands, adorn the steps and
Doors and aisle; black-suited ushers –
Bouncers for the night – stand by to open
Doors of limousines, but close the wrought-iron
Gates to any but the most chic wedding guests:
Here love is blind indeed. “To have and hold”
For ever in a false security.
Another scene, just yards away. Beneath the
Soft glow of the amber lamp illuminating some
Civic yester-worthy, a simple table holds a cup
And plate. Bread is broken, wine outpoured
Among the city’s poor to whom it best belongs.
And sat around arrayed in rags of beauty and
Of pain come children, women, men, by all
The world forgotten, save by God. So here the
Food of love, the wine of dignity restored is
Offered and received with joy. But then
While priestly hands are held aloft, and all
Is offered, even in this place, according to the
Canon, I spot a woman in the crowd bearing
Her gift: body lotion, cheap and pungent,
Passed from hand to hand – her offering to
Tend the aching flesh of dusty streets. Joyfully
It anoints first arms, then legs, then breasts -
And healing and Shalom are there, an
Alabaster box for all to share. And God, whose
Tears embrace the streets with love, now
Weeps with unambiguous delight.
On observing, and sharing in , a Street Mass
In down-town Rio de Janiero, October 2011
