segunda-feira, fevereiro 25, 2013


My poems are born in sketch books
because sketches is what they are –
poor little scratches, insignificant traces
of cafés, coffee, black tea and lard.
My slightly bloody words
are little sentimental wounds
of a useless and fertile womb
which will carry no more
and because of that it sometimes whines
                                 sometimes even sobs
rebelling against its desolate destiny.

Singular and occasional drops of water
in a country drowning in sunlight
all the longing
blood craving for iron
what was never meant to be.

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