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.


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 would 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 surely must follow Christ, 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 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.

A Guide for our Journey

On “Daisy Chain on rue de Rivoli”, photo, 1978, by Robert Doisneau.


Human life is full of adventures,

from which, many times, we cannot deviate.

On the contrary, if we face them,

with body and spirit combined,

they bring us achievements, often rewards.

These children see this street crossing

as so great a feat and a boldness,

although it may be, perhaps, simple

and ordinary one school excursion.

With terrific insight the photographer

recorded this scene,

an example to be followed by us,

who became adults in this world.

May we hold hands, hearts too, to smooth

and relieve the burdens we carry all days!

Heart Secrets

When, suddenly, I notice the largeness of the horizons,

and all beauty they unceasingly frame our world.

When, tender and dreamlike resting tonight,

I always see her face before asleep.

When I enjoy full air all the day long,

missing it when she approaches me.

Then, I think, this means I must be in love.

But with whom, I have no doubt that

nor to the walls should I reveal.


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

Rewriting Paradise

We found ourselves in the deserted streets,

and twinned in the challenge and fearlessness

to the enacted isolation.

Compelled by the oddity of the moment,

we delighted in such a privacy,

fruit and reward for our boldness.

Our love blossomed, suddenly and calmly,

honest, pure and original,

–  secluded inhabitants, entrusted by destiny –

to start a new world.

Let time stop, give this dream a lot of rope,

like the new toy we get for Christmas.

Don’t be lost the magic, take root in the ground,

bathe in the water that blesses, baptizes and revives.

Let it be heir to the best of our stories,

the best of our hopes.

Fellow Walkers

Sitting by the road’s edge, I watch life go by.

I see men, women, old and young people,

companions on our journey, the pilgrimage

we have embarked on, since forgotten ages.

They carry in their faces their realities and, beyond,

I try to imagine what really lead them to move on,

but cannot be seen: their well-kept secrets and desires,

their high esteem, their own motto, their ego.

They are striving to be individuals,

rather than simply one more.

Sometimes I see even myself,

mixed in the crowd, perhaps a little lost,

but firmly believing to be on the walk too.

I feel we are all connected in an invisible web

and hope we will reach, each at their own time,

that promised and dreamed land,

where happiness dwells, milk and honey spill,

and evil never finds shelter.


Published in Red Wolf Journal, March 21, 2020



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