Verses

From the verses of Poetry,
I envy the capacity of the ones who know how to make them.
The breath they take to enter in the ocean of the memory
The lust they kiss the alien ears.
I envy the freedom they have to come and go
How they are plastic and changeable people.
I am a raw material, woman who fight
Between the discouragement and hope
I would like to be one of their words
A single letter coming out from their
Immemorial lips
I do not have a past and wave for
An uncertain future, as if I knew something
But I do not know anything!
I am a decadent, I bleed, I suffer and I am not sure
If I am made of insanity or in flesh and bones
I am thirsty of life and knowledge
I feel my broken heart of homesickness
And miss the images my eyes did not see.
I am a thing posted in time.
The poems, yes they are happy, strong and resolute
They seem to be self solved, they do not fear death
When they cry it is not there is a lack of ink to write
Or because there is no one to listen to them or feel them in the inside
When they make a very silent prayer, millions of angels
Testify their devotion
I am all the questions of the vocations of the poet
The women who take me to the paper
Are demanding and obstinating, sometimes
However they do not give up of drinking my blood
And appoint the pen to my direction.
Some men also take me in the writing and in the reading
They do paralyze me, make me declare things
And tell me secrets and lies. I become an involuntary actress.
Then I keep going forward, letter by letter
Searching the perfect form and metrics
Which – by luck or misfortune
They Will reveal to me this lack of everything.
Then I will be able to know the source of my evil
The real desire of sharing multiple existences
And to translate the non-spoken words.

Renata Bomfim

tradutora: Sonia Lóra