Friday, January 30, 2015


Como um guarda chuva vermelho
atravessando a rua,
em um dia cinzento
Como, depois do aguaceiro, 
quando a luz bate nas árvores
e os verdes são mais verdes, 
inúmeros, brilhantes tons

Como se pudesse,
picada por uma aranha mutante, 
ouvir o bater da asa da borboleta,
os passos da formiga que carrega a folha, 
três vezes o seu tamanho,
o som de seu minúsculo corpo
esmagado pelo tênis de corrida

Como se, também, tivesse ela engolido uma barata 
E não coubesse mais 
Não pudesse mais 
Nunca mais 
Voltar ao antigo lugar

Thursday, January 1, 2015

How close is close?

"How close is close?" someone once asked me, and the question made my heart skip a beat and I lost my breath for a split of a second. "How close is close?", the question lingered, floating in the air, above my head, this little cloud that refused to dissolve in rain. It circulated in my blood, through my veins,  this question. It kept my inspiration deep and my expiration incapable of letting the air out completely. Yet, I continued breathing as the question remained, in and out, hoping at some point I would finally embrace it.

I pondered,  as minutes turned to hours and life repeated itself. How close is a far away star when you can touch it on a poem, feel it in your hands and paint your body with its silvery dust? How close is a long dead friend when you can hear the sound of her voice while asleep and wake up with the echo of that sound pounding in your heart? How close is the presence of a lost son for whom dreams were weaven in the most delicate thread of love? How close can a man and a woman be when time and circunstance are wrong,  life is half gone, but love is in its pure state? How close can lovers feel when passion breathes through the skin and the mere brush of a hand can ignite the world? How close is close?