In a dream, I saw Him on the mountain,
Not the Christ of books, but another,
Closer, perhaps more true.
His words, both new and ancient,
Echoed through the valley of consciousness.
"Brothers," He said, "war is the abyss
Where we drown our humanity.
Each bullet fired is a fragment
Of the soul lost in the void.
Those who wield weapons, blinded by power,
Forget that each body is a temple,
Each life, a sacred flame.
In killing another, we kill ourselves,
For we are all one in the web of existence.
How can one look in the mirror of virtue
When hands are stained red?
Violence is a broken mirror
That only reflects our own ruin.
I implore you, friends, to seek in compassion
The balm for the world's wounds.
Only dialogue can build bridges
Where once stood walls of hatred.
Let us be beacons in the night of intolerance,
Guiding the shipwrecked of war
To the safe harbor of understanding.
May our hearts be the weapons
In the battle for human dignity.
Peace is not a gift from heaven,
But a daily conquest of men.
Let us cultivate it with the sweat of our ideals,
Watering it with tears of empathy."
Thus spoke the Christ of my dream,
A preacher not of faith, but of humanity.
And I, an awakened atheist, long for his voice,
Echoing not from churches, but from hearts.
from my ebook: Janela para o Mundo
