Poetry

Patient is unstable but functional for now.

And there is still much war at the front.

News: depression has won the last two battles.

And one day I’ll die. And this whole tragicomic farce will die with me.

I will prove to the world that love yields nothing but the raw essence of autonomy.

Sometimes the Moon lies down on rooftops, and in her craters echo the sounds of my childhood.

It’s a summer mismeeting, a mismeeting of people and their things.

But most of all, I hate hate for it makes me write.

Yesterday, by accident, I looked at the calendar.

Am I? No. I was!

God, may she have shared with me the beauty of the sky licking the mountain’s back in orange tones

Sometimes I write about butterflies, not always.

In the half-light, the road ahead narrows me into a horizon.

Lie with me, my friend, my beloved death.

I, muddied from so much imagining and falling, and hurting myself on the clean lands of childhood."

Garotos e garotas quebram brinquedos, brincam quebrados.

My awkward, graceless walk is drawn along the thin line that binds me to painful times and by the arrogant cerulean abyss that clouds my future, already soaked in crimson.

And democracy screams in joy.

Life does not ask permission and far less, forgiveness.

Enduring are the shadows that follow my path.