I.
In the shadow of the large metropolises,
In the interiors of old wooden churches,
Where many priests all year have holy ashes,
To sprinkle it on the heads of the repentant parishioners...
First, by bowing his head,
Before the ephemeral ash a symbol of centuries,
Sometimes inspired by God,
After the mass in the center of the church, it will come out...
And sometimes before the church, though symbolically,
Part of the sacred ash in the wind will be scattered,
For humanity to be a sign,
That everyone will become dust...
Let the wind blow all over the world,
Ashes scattered by the old priest,
To remind all continents and nations,
The fragile and transient nature of human life...
Let's have his small bits,
With the wind of God's Wisdom,
Falling undetected on the heads of busy people,
They whisper about the request for penance...
This symbolic part of ash,
On the heads of business magnates,
The owners of global companies,
Loved so much in luxury and convenience,
Let it be a reminder,
To live in subjection to the pursuit of money,
They besides focused on God's interests,
Before it ends its earthly course...
This symbolic part of ash,
Shining bald men of corrupt politicians,
The networked systems,
The sidelines of murmuring business,
Let him undetected contact anyone,
To remind them in the sound of the seismic corridors,
Every broken electoral promise,
Every deceived voter of hope disappointed...
II.
When the walls of European Gothic cathedrals,
With bulldozers to dust today,
From the places of their erstwhile empty earth today,
All that remains is simply a silent testimony...
Those of the ancient Ash Wednesday,
Those who erstwhile served as servants of godliness,
Among mankind's sins,
To stand assured in the sight of the Most Merciful God...
And present alone, frequently being nothing but dust,
Those magnificent firing churches,
From the ancient past, mutes are the cry,
To sprinkle our heads in ashes in penance...
'Cause that small ash-sacred small thing,
The greater has value in God's eyes,
Than a bellowing silver bag,
In ancient times as in our day...
When all Judas silversmith today,
It is hidden in the form of multimillion-dollar sums,
To the secret accounts of anti-Catholic organizations transferred,
To service the fight against the Church of Christ...
This symbolic part of ash,
On the heads of the militant atheists,
Denying the existence of an eternal God,
And those who do not spare the human head with bowing down,
Let it be a reminder,
That not everything in the dreamy mysteries of the universe,
He can explain a man with a reasonable knowledge,
Without knowing the greatness of God's love...
This symbolic part of ash,
The heads of staunch anti-clericals,
Absorbed by the writing of successive pashquils,
Priests, monks, bishops,
Let him contact his senses,
Before life ends its course,
And come to stand before the Most advanced and the Eternal Priest,
On Earth's deeds, the final judgment...
III.
Though she did not spare their Bolshevikism,
Sometimes there's no stone left on the stone,
Sometimes all that remains is simply a sad ruin,
Over the decades, the moss of oblivion has grown...
In demolished Polish churches at the ends,
When the day of the night follows,
Whenever the north inexorably strikes,
And the Ash Wednesday is over...
The spirits of the dead pastors make the ashes of sacrifice,
As in the past centuries for earthly life,
When the eyelid hasn't closed yet,
The white of death is forever asleep...
And of our beloved distant ends,
With pain and suffering so marked,
From places where before the terrible wars,
Standing beautiful Polish churches...
Ashes of the Priests of the End
,
Let the stormy wind of past blow away,
In the Russian land, the ends of all things,
Marked wars, poorness and misery...
This symbolic part of ash,
On the head of the Russian land of dictators,
Without the slightest scruples,
In the pursuit of his bloody goals,
Let it fall quietly and quietly,
A large boulder with a burden,
To awaken their false consciences,
Perverted by imaginative big-powered ideas,
Scattered by a hurricane on the streets of Minsk,
A laying next to the golden dome of Moscow Kremlin,
Let him contact his forehead silently,
Yanukovych, Lukashenko, Putin,
To whisper quietly to their consciences,
About the unspeakable sufferings of Ukraine,
Of thousands of civilians shed blood,
The magnitude of irreparable war damage...
IV.
When a pot of ash broke from the ancient past,
Thrown before progressive humanity pride,
By our forgotten ancestors, shadows,
In the midst of everyday noise,
To be scattered on the roads of everyday ashes,
He reminded us of the passing of our time,
As fleeting as images of dreams,
Soaking free at dawn...
Remember, someday by God's will,
When our planet reaches its end,
The violent wind of wind history,
Countless generations will permanently dispel...
As the air inactive trembles in the old churches,
From our great-grandfathers of hot prayers,
Which we can hear today,
Listening carefully to the whisper of the past...
From ancient times, the threshing of large pedestals,
To modern humanity let it be a reminder,
That in this conflicted world,
Nothing always lasts and never lasts...
And this symbolic small ash,
Let him contact the heads of the world's celebrated scientists,
Highly respected graybeard professors,
The renowned universities of many lecturers,
In the thickets of intricate chemical equations,
When they search the secrets of the beginnings of the universe,
Drowning into their minds deep,
They understood that a spiritual component was needed.
And to make the material planet perfectly understood,
They should be spiritually united with God,
By sacrificing his work to the Almighty,
His PhDs, his habilitations, any technological dissertations,
And then the universe unexplored and mysterious,
Professors of their minds will become closer,
When with the power of quiet and fervent prayer,
They'll besides grow their mindful horizons...
V.
When mankind was married to Christ centuries ago,
She renounced her Bridegroom,
The city of the golden ring, somewhere in the pits of hell,
She put an ashtray of devils on a bunch of...
And cut by the devils an ash log,
In the unknown human imagination of hellish pits,
A 1000 cannons of artillery have a terrible weight,
The capable multimillion cities to the ground...
And yet another smoldering conflict begins,
They're like the hell chains of a link,
In which successive generations of mankind are chained,
A big-time imagination of all dictator...
But on the scales of God's righteousness,
These tiny sacred ashes,
They have more weight and more than atomic bombs,
The capable humanity of the full planet will annihilate...
And the mediocre priest's weight is greater,
When a fistful of believers call to conversion,
From orders of a fabulously wealthy dictator,
Fearful in millions of people's hearts...
And this symbolic small ash,
The heads of gangsters, drug dealers, pimps,
Spent years in a criminal underworld,
Despite the warm prayers of those who are kind to them,
Let the wind be carried gently,
A 1000 stones with weight,
To awaken their criminal consciences,
Though they have done so much harm to people...
This symbolic part of ash,
For the drunken on the live pathostreamers,
And from the depravity of the youth of the wicked,
They've never profited from a filthy profit.
Let it be a millstone,
Who will draw them into the remorse of the depths,
To smoldering with free grief for sins,
They burned out like a burning iron, a filthy habit...
VI.
Every year it's to the ash log,
They chain generations of sinful humanity,
giggling arrogantly in the afterlife of witchcraft,
In order to drive distant many sins,
Through all the past of war,
Poverty, misery, humiliation and exploitation,
Man-made disasters,
The tragedy of famine and natural disasters...
And though mankind is burdened with this ash log,
In the depths of sin for centuries,
She's got to pull her for years to come,
To the horizon of the world...
To be redeemed by angels,
Little things dedicated to the priests of ashes,
More valuable than gold ducats,
For the serving souls of men are converted...
As older brothers utilized to buy out,
In the inn roads falling apart,
My wayward sisters under the ashtrays of the yoke,
At the hands of many unusual maccaroni...
And this symbolic small ash,
Let him contact the heads of all sinners,
To awaken a conscience of remorse,
In the evening dark of old churches,
And the ashes of that day by the priest consecrated,
Whispering quietly to each of us soul,
Away from the hustle of the large metropolises,
We'll all be quietly reminded,
When life's run is over,
And our eyelids will close,
And with the last breath on his deathbed,
By God's will, we will sleep forever,
From the day of the ceremony to the ground laid,
When the tears of the mourners are dry,
How did we emergence from the dust,
So we turn to dust...
