Let’s canonize the whores. Saturday night saints’ calendar: Bety, Lola, Margot, perpetual, reconstructed virgins, temporary martyrs full of grace, wellsprings of generosity.

 You give pleasure, O world redeeming whore, and ask nothing in return but a couple of measly coins. You don’t demand to be loved, respected, attended to; you don’t go on like the wives with their whingeing, scolding and jealous fits. You force no one to make up or to bid you goodbye; you suck neither blood nor time; you are beyond reproach; you take the sinners to your breast, you listen to their words and dreams, you laugh and you kiss. You are patient, expert, long-suffering, wise, and free of resentment.

 You deceive no one: you are honest, upright, and perfect. You name your price and you reveal yourself. You don’t discriminate against the old, criminals, fools, or those of another colour. You suffer the assaults of pride, the snares of the sick; you soothe the impotent, stimulate the shy, gratify the satiated; conjure up the cure for the disenchanted. You are the drunkard’s confidante, refuge of the persecuted, rest bed of he who cannot find repose.  

 You have educated your hands, mouth and muscles, your skin, your guts and your soul. You know how to dress and to undress; you lie down, and you move. You are precise in your rhythm, exact in your moan, docile in the ways of love.

 You are freedom itself, and balance; you don’t dominate or detain anyone; you don’t get sentimental nor do you wait for anyone. You are pure presence, fluidity, perpetuity.

 In the place in which you minister the truth and beauty of life, be it an elegant brothel, a discreet house or the makeshift beds of the poor, you are the same as a lamp or a glass of water or a slice of bread.

 O whore of mine, lover, beloved, this and every day’s safe haven, I recognize you, I canonize you to one side of the hypocrites and the perverts, I give you all my money, I crown you with leaves of grass and I intend to learn from you for ever more.