Return home

 

I push me inside myself, I close the door.

I see them bring the oil lamp, I hear the sweet good night.

My hoarse and happy girl voice answers: good.

 

I wish my life had always been so:

Sunny, rainny or soft days as old Goias.

Streets that go up as if they were raising.

 

It is false teaching: always answer good night.

It is a lie: there will always be sun, moon as in Goias.

It’s a lie what they say - happy child, cheerful adult.

 

I stare at the colonial house. Subtle interest in the blue door.

Last scent, given look to the walls of the slaves,

To the hose, flower, Goias’s smell, flying bird.

 

Closed the door with lock, lamp off.

Nothing is read, but always listened: not thinking,

Or feeling life running down the palm of the hand.

 

As the clear red river runs to its bed,

In there silence and air is lost every single moment.

Soul prepares itself to the tender meeting without sleeping.

 

Life that falls silently apart upstream.

Who among us will feel unhappy with the house empty?

 

 

Botucatu, April 5th, 1980.