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

http://www.redwolfjournal.wordpress.com

 

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

 

Stayed by the Way

Sometimes a well-intentioned soul calls up,

or even comes to me personally,

claiming to have found, in improper and improbable place,

references or things that certainly belonged to me.

I answer I do not need them, I do not miss that,

keep them where they were found.

They are pieces of myself that I had to leave

by the paths I have travelled in my life,

penalties imposed by my fellow ones,

by sudden, irrepressible and irrefutable passions,

born in a simple, loving and thoughtless heart.

Pieces that prove I did not refuse not even a little

of the portion I must share in my human condition:

I lived, suffered, loved; left my journey well marked.

 

Published in Red Wolf Journal, March 18, 2020.

http://www.redwolfjournal.wordpress.com

Call it love, but don’t tell her

When I can’t see her, without starting to dream;

when her talking with others startles me;

when, at night, I close my eyes and,

before asleep, I see her face and her smile;

when, suddenly, I start to notice all beauty

which has unceasingly framing our world;

when I enjoy full air all the day long,

missing it when she approaches me;

then, believe me, I’m probably to embark

on the most serious journey of my life.

 

Gloomy Days

My dead, those I loved in life,

I do not bury them.

They remain forever unburied,

at least as long as I can stay alive.

When I die, they will be buried beside me.

Meanwhile, wherever I go, they are my companions.

We talk about everything and everyone,

we laugh, weep, love and hate;

they rest with me at night and give me strength,

at the dawn of each new day.

Every victory of mine, they applaud and rejoice,

as faithful crowd that accompanies their team.

Morbid desires, unnatural cravings, some will say.

But no, it is just great and honest a love, a pure one,

that understands and consoles me on certain days.

Days full with doubts, shadows and ill feelings,

those that fate has marked for me,

which, surely, I will be not able to avoid.

A Soul’s Recollection

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,

entranced by:

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 ©

 

 

By a Walk in the Park

It happened in a cold Saturday afternoon,

under remarkable and pure blue sky,

like some others that autumn had unfolded.

You were dressed in a grey coat and a golden smile,

and sudden said those words I had never listened to:

– I love you –

Surprised, seduced, unvoiced,

you heard my silence as consent,

and so you baptized and blessed forever

happy and exquisite our entire life.

The Saga of a People

I like humans.

They are a peculiar people who are confined

on a planet long forgotten in space.

Abandoned, as well as in a bus with non-existent stops,

they believe that it is in store for them

safe and happy a destiny.

It seems they are waiting for a new land, where milk

and honey flow abundantly and evil never finds shelter,

once promised by the creator of their race.

Such is the story that has been passed by their ancestors,

successively buried in the wheels of time.

I think they deserve to be supported in every way possible,

as their toiling has been proven very arduous and painful.

Indeed, they have so far endured their journey, due to odd,

exquisite and singular a love, that has survived,

despite countless setbacks and mismatches.

Anyway, although his absence,

they remember and revere their creator,

and, some, even love.