Chains

I am on the blacktop of a promontory. Darkness. It is a dark night and the Moon is hidden by white, fragile, thick clouds. I begin to hear a slight murmur that slowly becomes more perceptible. Distant flashes accompany the macabre sound. The cold is felt in the face, and in the hands, and as the murmur becomes more present, the flashes of the torches clearly reveal a procession of black robes, one after another, their faces hidden. The murmur is becoming understandable in some way, they are broken phrases, they are the dark prayers of the penitents. As they approach, the slow dragging of the chains is distinguished, one for each sin. I try to go unnoticed, but one of the penitents leaves the procession and comes to me. I can only see a black surface under his thick hood and a guttural sound warns me of my future. Without knowing how, I find myself forming part of the procession, wearing a black habit and occupying the last place, and my hands are not able to distinguish the features of my face. We are the penitents who have died on this day.

Cadenas

Estoy en la negra cima de un promontorio. Oscuridad. Es una noche cerrada y la Luna está oculta por unas nubes blancas, frágiles, espesas. Empiezo a oír un ligero murmullo que lentamente se va haciendo más perceptible. Unos lejanos destellos acompañan al macabro sonido. El frío se deja sentir en el rostro, en las manos, y a medida que el murmullo se hace más presente, los destellos de las antorchas dejan ver claramente una procesión de negros hábitos, uno tras otro, ocultos los rostros. El murmullo va tornándose…