Today I am remembering the voices I have been hearing,
which are recorded in my memory:
the first cry of the newborn, searching to be noticed
in the new world in which they are starting;
the last cry of pain from the dying,
saying goodbye to those who remain;
by the summer, the geese’s hisses and
the buzzing of bees and hummingbirds,
in their comings and goings to their flowers;
on happy nights, more guessed than heard,
the vows and whispers of passionate lovers;
the noise of people on the streets, corners and squares,
struggling not to go unnoticed
and to leave their stories written.
Likewise, and, perhaps, even more remarkable,
at least for me,
the voice that cannot be spoken,
coils in the throat, comes back to the soul,
then radiates in the brightness of the eyes,
the extreme beauty of the beloved woman,
the smile that was thought to be lost,
the children’s return, long absent from home,
the sun that got lost last night,
wondrously back by the morning.
These are strong feelings that make life worth living,
and more light our journey.
A journey in which we hold hands,
towards the promised land,
where milk and honey flow,
and evil never finds shelter.
This poem and all others at this blog, authored by Edilson Afonso Ferreira ©