Holy Mary, woman in love, unquenchable bush of love, we ask pardon for offenses against your humanity. We have thought you capable only of flames ascending toward heaven, and then, perhaps out of fear of contaminating you with earthly things, we have excluded you from the experience of small sparks here below. You, instead, fire of charity for the Creator, you are also a teacher of how we should love the creatures. Help us, therefore, to reconstruct the absurd dissociation in love with which we carry on separate accounts: one for the sky, (too poor actually), and the other for the earth (rich of voices, but anemic in content). Let us understand that love is always holy, because its blazes depart from the only fire of God. But let us also understand that, with the same fire, as well as we turn on lamps of joy, we have the sad possibility of burning the most beautiful things of life. So Holy Mary, woman in love, if it is true, as the liturgy sings, that you are the "Mother of Fair Love", welcome us to your school. Teach us to love. It is a difficult art that is learned slowly. Because it means to free the embers, without turning them off, from many layers of ash. Love, variation of the verb die, means decentralize. Going out of myself. Giving without asking. Be discreet on the edge of silence. Suffering to bring down the scales of selfishness. Going out of the way when you are likely to jeopardize the peace of a home. Wishing for the happiness of the other. Observing his fate. And disappearing when you realize that you are upsetting his mission.Holy Mary, woman in love, as the Lord has said: "They are in you all my sources", let us feel that is always love the underground network of those sudden blades of happiness, which, in some moments of life, pierce the spirit, reconcile you with the world and give you the joy of existence. You alone can make us understand the holiness that underlies, and those arcane thrills of the spirit, when the heart seems to stop or beat faster, before the miracle of things.The pastels of the sunset, the smell of the ocean, the rain in the pine forest, the last snow of spring, the chords of a thousand violins played by the wind, all the colors of the rainbow .. they evaporate, then, from the subsoil of the memories, religious yearnings of peace, that are joined with expectations of future landings, and make you feel the presence of God. Help us, because in those moments of fast falling in love with the universe we can guess that the night chanting of the cloistered nuns and the ballets of the dancers of the Bolshoi have the same source of charity. And the source of inspiration of the melody that resonates in a cathedral in the morning is the same refrain that you hear at night coming from a roundabout on the sea: "Tell me of love, Mariù".
Holy Mary, woman in love, unquenchable bush of love, we ask pardon for offenses against your humanity. We have thought you capable only of flames ascending toward heaven, and then, perhaps out of fear of contaminating you with earthly things, we have excluded you from the experience of small sparks here below. You, instead, fire of charity for the Creator, you are also a teacher of how we should love the creatures. Help us, therefore, to reconstruct the absurd dissociation in love with which we carry on separate accounts: one for the sky, (too poor actually), and the other for the earth (rich of voices, but anemic in content). Let us understand that love is always holy, because its blazes depart from the only fire of God. But let us also understand that, with the same fire, as well as we turn on lamps of joy, we have the sad possibility of burning the most beautiful things of life. So Holy Mary, woman in love, if it is true, as the liturgy sings, that you are the "Mother of Fair Love", welcome us to your school. Teach us to love. It is a difficult art that is learned slowly. Because it means to free the embers, without turning them off, from many layers of ash. Love, variation of the verb die, means decentralize. Going out of myself. Giving without asking. Be discreet on the edge of silence. Suffering to bring down the scales of selfishness. Going out of the way when you are likely to jeopardize the peace of a home. Wishing for the happiness of the other. Observing his fate. And disappearing when you realize that you are upsetting his mission.Holy Mary, woman in love, as the Lord has said: "They are in you all my sources", let us feel that is always love the underground network of those sudden blades of happiness, which, in some moments of life, pierce the spirit, reconcile you with the world and give you the joy of existence. You alone can make us understand the holiness that underlies, and those arcane thrills of the spirit, when the heart seems to stop or beat faster, before the miracle of things.The pastels of the sunset, the smell of the ocean, the rain in the pine forest, the last snow of spring, the chords of a thousand violins played by the wind, all the colors of the rainbow .. they evaporate, then, from the subsoil of the memories, religious yearnings of peace, that are joined with expectations of future landings, and make you feel the presence of God. Help us, because in those moments of fast falling in love with the universe we can guess that the night chanting of the cloistered nuns and the ballets of the dancers of the Bolshoi have the same source of charity. And the source of inspiration of the melody that resonates in a cathedral in the morning is the same refrain that you hear at night coming from a roundabout on the sea: "Tell me of love, Mariù".
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