I suffer from cold fits when I hear of money.
Does a poet need money? Does he understand it?
They ask if I want to sell my house, my car,
how many dollars do I want for them.
I rarely remember if they are mine,
or how much had I paid for them, if so.
They do not know how impertinent they are.
Should I value my things, my labor, my time,
or, by chance, my life?
People cannot understand poet’s measures.
Is it possible they do not know that they are
the human happiness,
a plain smile
and permanent beauty’s ravishment?
By Edilson Afonso Ferreira.
Published in Right Hand Pointing, issue 78. September 2014
Published in Every Day Poems, November 27, 2015
Published in Indiana Voice Journal, May 2016 issue.
Published in The Basil O’Flaherty, July 2016 issue