Poems

Verses, rhythms, and poetic expressions.

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I don't know who I am,I don't know where I've come from or where I'm going,So I borrow the thinker's words,Because I carry the same pain in my heart,And deep down, the same love.
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If there is no such thing as the sacred

If there is no sacrednessThe wolf does not run through the storm, howling in the windIf there is no sacrednessThe sky does not color the puzzled gazes in the nightIf there is no sacrednessMoonlight does not spill across the yellow wheat fieldsIf there is no sacredSilence inspires nothing in loversIf there is no sacredThere is no coolness of dew upon the weariness of scienceIf there is no sacredThe fury of the sea does not make us introspectiveIf the sacred does not existThe infinite is not mysterious and reveals itself to any foolIf the sacred does not existThere is no unknownAnd without it, nothing isBecause nothing can become.
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Saturday night

EncountersWith lips....Missed encountersThat are normal...GlancesThat are lethal...SeductionThrough gestures...Caresses...Animalistic...IllusionsBrilliant...GesturesSigns...SensesIrrational...MomentsRadical...LipsCarnal...MemoriesSensual...PlansMarginal...NightsAncient...
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The Night of Consciousness

A wild dog runs through my veinsIt’s not from here, but from other timesIt roams through the millennia lost in my dreamsIt leaps over so many mountainsAnd crosses so many desertsAs far as the moon can see from its silenceIn this dog’s howls there is no story at allThere is only vastness, space, and the universe that knows itselfSilent in the intense night, without consciousness having burst forth to admire itThe wild dog never rests,And feels the cold sweat on its warm skinAnd fights fiercely for the pleasure of running through the entire wild worldWhether challenged to survive,Whether threatened by other ferocious animalsThere is no dream he has not already livedThere is no birth of nature that hides from himThere is no battle he has not foughtThere is no uninhabited territory he does not knowThere is no night free from his distant howlThere is no glacial or equatorial air that his panting lungs have not breathedA wild dog runs through my veins He is from another timeAnd he is neither violent nor maliciousBecause in his time, there is no such thing as maliceHe is neither charitable nor subservientBecause in his time there are only wild beings like himNo one knows where he came fromOr if one day he will leave my depthsHe has always existed and will never dieHe will gaze upon the moon, untouched by any human gaze, from the top of a sacred hillHe will know the sunbeams that have never touched a single thoughtHe will howl loudly, searching for his wild companion, for that is his natureThere are neither doubts nor certainties along his pathsThere is only the virgin earth, open to his footstepsAnd the freedom of having no path at allOnce he saw a campfire around which men of the stones were musingUnconcerned with yesterday or tomorrowThey gazed at one another as quietly as the purity and innocence of nature can beAnd the wild dog ran toward themAnd upon touching them, he plunged into human history,And nothing was forgotten by himAnd almost blinded by what he sawAnd anxious, panting, exhaustedHe found another campfire and other men gathered around itHe ran desperately toward themAnd he can return to his own time,Where there is no time at all,And he leaps from one mountain to another, strong,And crosses the deserts,And he is so free because he does not know what a prison isOnce he experienced restSleeping in a field of grass, dewy with the dawnThat was the only time I almost saw himWhen I lost awareness of myself and everything around meBut I became him and was able to wander through the unknown nightAnd I traveled through the veins of a man without being a manI saw bursts of thoughts and memories on the horizonWithout knowing what that meantAnd I ran freely, without any fatigue.Sometimes I almost see him.
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To the lost youth and weary warriors

To the soldiers lost far from their homesWith spears and stones embedded in their spinesThrown at the impetuous onesWith no campfire to lift them upShy both inside and outSeated on the ground, immersedLike paints on a parched canvasDrawn with a single, undefined strokeAt the loom with threads of bloodWith a razor stuck in the cloudsBlue is etched into the red horizonInto their pierced eyesLet us silence our voices and our judgmentLet us pray to their fathers and mothersOpening our hearts from afarTo these young people cast out into the worldLet us bless their desiresTo return home and kissTheir innocent little brothers and sisters.
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Champagne in Memory

We’ll still laugh together about all of this... babyAbout the drunken headlights of my unsteady hands on your breastsAbout my despair—Fred Astaire tap-dancing on stageAbout the serene lake of your gazeAbout the words parachuting out of our mouthsAbout dreaming of a child, babyOf the intensity of your beautyOf being lost in the chaos of your armsOf our tangled legsOf watching you fade into the horizon while I agonized over your farewellWe’ll still laugh together about all of this, baby...Thinking of nothing, like the innocent ones on the sidewalks...
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They polluted the waters of the Ipiranga River

Between you and meThey’ve dirtied the waters of the Ipiranga...They’ve polluted its peaceful banks Those schizophrenic and irrational factories... The beloved motherland, gentle mother,Does not belong to the children she boreIt belongs to the fewThe gentle motherlandDamn it allAnd tell the laurel-green of that bannerThat we are Black, that we are mixed-raceThat we are realThat we are the mixed-race people, with pride...The country is a manly, fearless colossusAnd the people gnaw at the boneFrom a heroic people, the resounding cryIs just an ideal and beautiful shout, on the poor concrete slabsVarious hungers—hunger is realInequality is realThe blackmail of capital is real....In the sky above our homeland, at this very moment, there are liesYour bosom of freedom has allowed itself to be conquered by transnational capital....And the sun of freedom? In dazzling rays?Not a chance… we are slaves to incompetence, slaves to corruptionWe are slaves to absurdityIdolized illusions…Idolized bread and circuses and sex…Lying eternally in a splendid cradleA splendid and barren cradle...To the children of this land, you are a gentle motherTo submissive childrenUpon your wings of chaos from fierce and merciless capital...A blow to my national heartHail, hail! The oligarchyThe absurd, childish prostitutionocracyHail, hail! The luxocracy shining in the retinas of a needy peopleHail, hail! The absurdocracyHail, hail! The mechanical iron fist on beautiful, televised faces... Beloved land, do you remember my bare feet?Beloved land, I still know your taste and your scent to this day......Adored landWhere does the image of the cross shine?In luxurious rooms, or in shacks?Where does the image of the cross shine?In the thirsty eyes of your people? They polluted the banks of the IpirangaThe gentle motherland has gone madThe resounding cry has fallen silentThe breasts of freedom have dried upThe image of the cross does not shine; it is forgottenAn undaunted, skeletal colossusYour beautiful, smiling, clear sky—now polluted and distant...
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Frenetic

Suicidal KissSpirit of TragedyDancing VenusToday I’m not what you wantI am the slave’s bodyThe genius’s delightPharaoh of pornographic towelsExplosive verbSemiotic semantics of madnessThe warrior’s nerves in the final secondNoI’m definitely not what you wantLove without forgivenessA shot in the dark nightTiny and infinite atomSustenance of the universeFire in the galaxyThe nakedness of bodiesBase metal on the fingers of prostitutesA mighty bison trampling the mudNoNot todayToday I’m not what you wantWhores and schizophrenicsI am much more like themthan much of what I’m seeing!InsaneGod turned into a saintMore fireEyes in the fogAbysmal silenceA shot to the chestThe sailors’ fearThe fury of rageA streak across the skyA chaotic kissThe loneliness of the nightsTomorrow is another day andI’ll walk upright and docileBut inside me, there’s all of this.
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Language

The articleis a faithful friend to the nounthe pronounis like that with the verbadjectivesoulthat “adjunct” thingI never quite understood itbut it does have its own meaningthe numeral piles up on mehow many kisses have I given youremember that old matchmaking prepositionthat the devil was the comma in our separationand then just a few more wordsperiodthe end and a new beginningLanguage belongs to the peopleOnly to the peopleand to no one elseand it’s perfectin the mouths of the humble, it’s even moreperfectly imperfectand the poet goes and makes a mistakeOn purpose!
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For Teens

At age seven, you had at least one childhood scarAt age ten, you already had a little idealized crush—the kind kids haveAt age thirteen, a pimple on your face was your biggest problemAt age fifteen, a fervent desire was impossible not to have By twenty, you’ll have had a few unrequited crushesBy twenty-five, you’ll have quit at least one job, failed at a plan, and been disappointed by a big dreamBy thirty, you’ll already have many abandoned desiresBy thirty-five, you’ll try to relive your youth all in a single dayBy forty, you’ll have proven your worth, come to know your strengths and weaknesses, and you’ll also have a scar on your heart—deep, very deep...But it’s at forty that the magic happens: you’ll have already gone through a dozen embarrassing situations, and you’ll accept your lot, realizing that it’s impossible to avoid a few embarrassing moments.At forty-five, you’ll let go of some quirks and pick up othersAt fifty, you’ll forgive the minor irresponsibilities of young people—you’ll even glorify them—and take some pride in your own mistakes—youth is impetuous—At fifty-five, if you survive pollution, divorce, endless wars, the same old and ever-changing economic plans, and frustration with politics, at most by this age, you’ll pay more attention to your own needs and the human condition, and you’ll have the courage to admit them, simply saying: “No,” and that’s that...At sixty, your temper will become a little more irritable—or calm once and for allBecause time neither improves nor worsens, neither remembers nor forgets; it doesn’t demand anything and cannot be held accountableTime only reaffirms itself more and more.....At sixty-five, you’ll feel like a winner for having survived tropical storms, the loneliness that sometimes devastated you, the chemicals you took unwittingly, the excess of sweets and food, the disappointment of your team’s defeat, the eternal human game, the stares of others, the fear of exposing yourself to ridicule—and you’ll no longer have fears like you once didAt seventy, you’ll either lament or be able to laugh at all of this—and at yourselfIf you have even a little bit of wisdom, you’ll choose to laugh, and you’ll watch young people making mistakes in the world, feeling as though you’re watching a movie...
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Close your eyelidsShut out the world, babyClose the window of despairPlay in the swept-clean backyard of the unconsciousDrive this time crazyAnd we’ll be innocent again...
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Streets

PhrasesStagesFeverFecesYou doFamousSicklesKicksEnd of the dayEnd of theLineCooksA dressOf ribbonOf calicoSlab stonesCarsTormentorsCriesTearsWetColorsStreetsDayOn a dayWhen everythingExisted
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Words

WordsWords are dangerousWords enlighten; words enrageWords bring peaceWords bring warWordsSilenceWordsWords are powerfulWords healAnd words cause painWhere do words come from?
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