Roses from Mary (A
poem for Our Lady of Guadalupe)
Roses imprinted upon rough cactus fiber cloth, thus bears the image of
our Holy Mother of Heaven—
And has
for nearly five-hundred years—
Roses given
to Juan Diego, in 1531, turned into the image of Mary, the mother to the Son of
God, and Son of Man!
No
cracks, no candle smoke fading upon this image.
It lives,
the image lives and the colors remain as is; as they always were—century after
century; nothing more miraculous than that—
(Within
the forehead of the image, is the persona of a bearded man with eyes closed,
that could very well be the image within the shroud…
At
different distances as in nature, the appearance changes!)
Nothing
has hindered it: acid, heat, bombs— weather or alike—
The stars
on her tunic, are that of the image of the winter sky, December 12, 1531, when
Mary gave those Roses to Juan Diego!
Those
Stars on her tunic, are viewed from outside of heaven’s gates looking down (reversed); no less
than a snapshot of heaven and earth!
And
should you look deep, even deeper into her eyes, you will discover the image of
Juan Diego, and many more of those folks who were of Diego’s time!
The face
of Mary, is ageless, centuries have filled her eyelids.
Her skin
changes colors from Indian Olive, to a European natural complexion, you need
only step back a bit, and refocus—
And the
image remains day and night at 98.6 Degrees Fahrenheit… the human body
temperature—
The image
is a message for those far-off days (perhaps for today too), to the
pagan world who worshiped the stars and the sun and earth and the moon, as
gods: that she, and her Son, were above them, all were under their heels, — and
hence, all those false gods in Mexico were no more than a false fabrication, of
untruth.
No: 4749/4-7-2015
/ Note: The author and his wife visited Mexico City, in 2002, and went to the
church to see the image of “The Lady of Guadalupe” so this poem is long
overdue. Information extracted, and
inspired by Brother Peter Diamond, of “The Most Holy Family Monastery” and put
into poetic prose. What has not been
mentioned to my surprise, is why no one has, or at least Brother Diamond, not
mentioned, the reflection, or replication of the image I see in the forehead of
Mary, of what I believe to be a bearded man, whose eyes are closed, much like
the Shroud. Of Turin, it is as plain as the shadows under her eyes (inside the
image of is on her forehead are hieroglyphics)
