A keresés eredménye

The Final Song

there is a scent of goodbye in your voice
there is a taste of pain in your view
there is a tear lost in your hands
there is a distance without end from your body
there is a gesture lost in your silence
there is a mourning in the blue of this morning
there is a final point bleeding inside me
 

Song for my Widow

When it's time
For them to put my shroud on
Baby, don't turn my death into
A storm in a teacup
 
You must cry, but just a little
And in a discreet manner
Three tears for the crazy one
Five or six for the poet
 
Do it all without further delay
Spare me these terrible things
The useless long prays
And the wreaths of flowers
 
Save me all the clichés
Actually, I never was good
But you can adorn my forehead
With your lipstick mark
 
If it were up to me, you'd be exempted
From the condition of being a widow
I hope my death will
Come in handy to you
 
In case there's any money left
Don't deny your fate
Marry some guy straight away
And travel with him to China
 

My Poetry

My poetry was not polite.
at bilac school
And will never be invited to tea
of immortals of the Brazilian academy of letters
 
My poetry walks barefoot on the streets
The old center of São Paulo
No French translator will waste his time
leaning over it
nor will it be remembered in the family soirees
They will not say it in schools
On civic holiday days after the
national flag which reads Order and Progress
is hoisted by a blonde girl
 
My poetry goes out every day.
Very early in the heliopolis favela
Catches crowded bus
Goes down the front door without paying for the ticket
And will sell bullets at the crossroads of Brazil with the rebaces
 
My poetry is that shameless woman
Which is offered to anyone without ceremony
Screw up assaults and is even capable of killing
My poetry feeds on the garbage of words
Rotten forbidden that does not fit in the mouth
Of good people and therefore should be extorted
Of all anthologies and condemned to thirty years of silence
 

Mother's Day (For Those Who Rock their Dead Children)

Sigh of tired woman
in the clouded solitude of the room
An imaginary empty crib next to the bed
A cry of silence - and only
Burning well in the end of the world of memory
Tears ceased to be tears
But the merciless time insists
In bringing them back - always ...
What good is the poem at these times?