When?

And yet I feel content and don't get tired
of slashing with my fingers through the air,
tarantella-like.
The hands
have the power of a stone
that hisses in a fury once it's thrown
and crashes into a wall,
but they instead are sharply pointed hammers
that want to dig
to find a voice or spark
within the dark.

Ah, these madmen, these madmen
that gnaw
on stones like sugar;
By the armful,
I know,
they should be flung into ravines,
hissing, hissing;
but maybe more stubborn than an ass
that will not budge, even if you kill him,
I still remain here nailed within the hope
of making their eyes glimmer
with a light yearning to undim
the blackness of a cross
there in the mud.