We have lived a frank, fraternal and realistic love.

Realistic in the sense that we understand it so much,

that if one day, for this or that, it ends,

although human and fallible as we are,

in our time, few may have had so good fortune

and happiness, just as we had.  

And if it happens to last forever,

as we have sworn with affection,

surely, the Olympian Gods will envy us,

those of whom it has been said they are eternal,

see and feel everything and everyone.

They will not hesitate to give us terrible punishment.

We know none of them has loved as much as we did.

Seen in passing through

She passed, sovereign and powerful,

as only a beautiful woman knows how.

Unaware (perhaps) of the uproar caused

in the hearts and feelings around.

Supreme gift donated to humanity by the Creator, 

reason for promises, deeds and exploits by men

of fine lineage and caste, chained to be loyal worshipers

of what has been left for us in beauty and enchantment.

And, believe me, she who is happening to pass now,

neither knows nor dreams to be guilty of this;

  • to my despair and passion    –

she has snow-white skin,

crowned by the darkest hair.

Our Legend continues

I am not worried about my future days.  

You will probably point me out as reckless, defiant, 

by challenging what we cannot predict or guess.

The fact is that I learned a lot from the sadness

and disappointment I have had, really so many,

but not enough to overwhelm me.

I hope I still have many pleasures in my future,

like or better as I have had,

even if some of them are the ones that,

later, turn out to be deceptive and fleeting.

I have already learned the modus-operandi of the one

who has been the mentor of my destinies and my ways.

So, I have seasoned my life with the same passions,

thus believing he will not have much to change

and surprise me.

Let my future come soon, I do not fear and will embrace it

with the same faith of past days.

I will fight its frustrations and disagreements, which, by sure,

will appear again.

I will lie down with  new pleasures – flames and sweet loves

will spring up.

From time to time,, I will throw to the skies sound and honest a laughter,

and, a little incredulous, the Gods will know that, despite everything,

even if it is for just one,

the human legend is still going on down here.

This poem and all others at this blog, authored by Edilson Afonso Ferreira ©

From the Origin of Things

I keep always inside a secret oak chest,

invisible, safe and inviolable,

all my prayers and hopes, loves and troubles,

triumphs and defeats, hugs, dismay and discomfort.

They are a mosaic of the days I have lived, witnesses

of laughter and affection, tears and sobs, which show

that I did not run away from life, having lived it honoring

the sacredness with which it was once conceived.

They will be the passport for my re-entry into the fellowship

to the one who sent us to this common arena of smuggles,

afflictions and despairs and, from time to time,

happiness, fearlessness, even a certain human pride.

Sometimes this chest becomes heavy and unbearable,

and I need to empty it, because other days and passions

are waiting to be cloistered.

Hidden from human eyes, I open it and its content is burned;

emanations are mingled with the clouds of heaven, and,  

like an old Pandora’s box, give rise to bonanzas, lulls,  

besides, occasionally, storms and thunders.

Luckily, to date, tornadoes and hurricanes have not appeared.

Published in Poetry Poetics Pleasure, vol 05, issue 1, Jan 04, 2021.


Published in the printed issue spring 2021 of West Ward Quarterly


This poem and all others at this blog, authored by Edilson Afonso Ferreira ©


Many times, in the day to day, we came across

surprising and unpredictable events,

that leave us breathless and speechless.

Some sad, unwanted and hurtful ones, 

which we cannot understand its origins or reasons,

carried out by family, friends, even by ourselves.                                                             

We must also remember those, likewise unexpected,

that had brought happiness, joy and well-being,      

which, without better judgment, we accounted

as if had been natural and fully deserved ones.  

Indeed, in the harvest we do every day,

we are used to abundance, sometimes to scarcity,  

healthy fruits alongside some sick ones.

We should always take into account

that have not been only we who have planted

what we are now reaping.   

It had been sowed by parents and grandparents,

also by everyone who preceded us. 

Really, it is the heritage we must honor,

interdependent as we are, in our common,

beloved, sometimes so suffering human race.

Seasons on Fire

On “Autumn Leaves”, Oil on Canvas, 1856, by John Everett Millais.

Four women in the field.

Three young women and a little girl.

Late afternoon, trying to accomplish her job,

gathering a pile of leaves to make a bonfire

and, then, like vestals of modern times,

they will be offering it to the sky;

more than odor of burning leaves,

incense from departing summer. 

Executors and witnesses to the seasons’ changes,

to which, inebitably, all of us are chained.

The two eldest feed the funeral pile,

properly dressed in dark clothes, while the youngest,

indifferent and incomprehensible to the moment,

feeds herself.

The land will become bare and virgin,

sanctified and prepared for the miracle of spring.   

In the background, the sun that gilded the day,

prepares itself for the retreat:

will make its journey to brothers beyond horizons,

remaining, however, its promise, never broken,

of eternal and daily reborn.

(Published in The Lake, November 2020 issue)



This poem and all others at this blog, authored by Edilson Afonso Ferreira ©

Lines I will leave

It was a sunny day, only I felt the gloom

that accompanied it.

No one noticed my agony and my despair,

neither heard my sobs nor saw my tears.

I know they inhabit their castles of indifference

and selfishness, daily toasting to their goddesses,

some I never wish should be mine.  

Tears that healed my body’s wounds,

smoothed my soul and comforted my spirit,

pouring out all my sadness.

A prelude for the days to come, 

whose story I am obliged to leave written,

which will be judged by our creator,

besides all of those who crossed my path.

May it be lines to justify the season I passed

through this world, a testimony which worth

the redemption of my entire being,

showing, at least, a little bit of the sacredness

from which we must never abdicate in this life.

Weightings in a Ray of Light

On “The waiting room of Union State, Chicago, Illinois, January 1943,

photo by Jack Delano”


God created light and it cannot be extinguished.

It has warmed and illuminated us since the beginning of world,

it is free, does not accept restrictions or barriers.

It has its own time and hides itself every 12 hours,

when makes night for us, and day for lands

beyond distant horizons.

So planned the Creator, who, in his wisdom,

gave us the rest we need to win our daily deals.

We had the intelligence to create our own light,

that gives us security and relief in the night hours,

but we know it does not compare to the original one.

We see that the artist, expert and on sentry duty,

witnessed the entrance of the light at its right time,

untimely and powerful, uninvited guest,

one that cannot be asked to leave.

We may, perhaps, in a near day, make a new light,

a spiritual one that rectifies human behavior

and ennobles our soul, turning it more fraternal,

regardless of race, color, religion or intimate belief.


This poem and all others at this blog, authored by Edilson Afonso Ferreira ©

A Christ very little remembered


‘On Christ Cleansing the Temple, Wood by El Greco, c. 1570’

We must follow Christ and learn from him,

unquestionable master of love and tolerance.

Son of God, yet a brother, he bequeathed us

divine words and deeds that survive forever.

The way he loved us, great and pure,

no one had or has ever equally leveled.

His sacrifice on behalf of humanity,

that of then and of coming times,

unworthy and infidel ones, perhaps,

just by this,

took him to redeem us from bitter destiny.

But, aside from his Divinity, his grandeur,

do not forget the passage of Matthew 21-12,

when he entered the temple of his father.

Then, not by a conversation or dialogue,

‘He cast out all them that sold and bought’,

‘overthrew the tables of the moneychangers’.

I love this Christ, so human and so brother,

who did not conceal his anger,

as he were one of us.

By now, in our time, to honor our Lord,

we have failed to call up one Saint Fury,

just like that day.

This poem and all others at this blog, authored by Edilson Afonso Ferreira ©

The Postman and the Artist

On “Mailbox on a ranch near Farson, Wyoming, Sep 1941”,

photo by Marion Post Wolcott.


A lost mailbox in the Wyoming hinterlands.

Portrait of a world that was forgotten,

although here we are remembering it.

An artifact that, nowadays, lost its importance,

replaced by Internet, WhatsApp, Instagram,

and, in truth, something else that it could be.

There was a postman, who traveled this path,

took letters and bills, baptisms, wedding

and funeral invitations; followed up on lives,

deaths, loves and dislikes.

One who didn’t know that, someday, a woman,

an artist named Post, would immortalize the way

where he had worked and shared news,

besides, indeed, secrets and confessions

nobody ever dared to dream of.