God and His angels live forever and ever,
theirs is eternity.
They must not worry about scarcity
or limitation of their days.
We give vent to our existence in that
millionth of second we are destined for.
However, many of us have left engraved,
on visible and eternal tombstone,
much more than
our fifteen minutes of fame.
Sometimes I venture to make a risky journey.
I go to the past, long ago, distant, and perilous.
The road I take has been built entirely by me,
in very hard a way no one at all dreams of.
Rough a path and full of so many deviations,
that even I, well used to, I go so timorous.
Now, I see that there were no other choices,
for only this way would lead me where I am.
Where and what I must be ever since I was.
On this visit, I see friends, lovers, enemies,
grandfathers and cousins, see also myself.
Then, undoubtedly alive, they talk to me,
ask for news, and soon we are laughing,
like old comrades absent for so long.
On leaving, one or other wants to follow me,
but I do not feel safe and come home alone.
I suspect that past is jealous of its deeds
and always hides how has woven them.
I think it must be visited as few times
as one is capable of.
Published in Taj Mahal Review, print issue, Dec 21, 2021
Published in Scarlet Leaf Review, June 5, 2022
Published in the Galway Review, July 30 2025
Published in 7th Circle Pyrite, Feb 21, 2026
A priest at the church’s aisle wears black,
welcoming boys and girls wearing white.
The priest’s black cassock makes a counterpoint
at boys’ suits, short pants and knee socks,
girls’ dresses, veils and gloves; a full display
of rich splendid whites.
They arrive holding in hands lighted candles
and small (white) prayer books, lucent faces
shining more than the candles, yet more than
some big full-lighted ceiling chandeliers.
A touching image of former times, happy ones,
the celebration of a First Holy Communion,
testimony of pure minded a children’s faith.
Then, life ran simply, giving us fewer choices,
like only black phones and only white fridges,
along with dear black and white films and photos.
Moreover, time to encounter enduring lovers,
who confront life disillusions, jointly reaching,
so many years ahead,
colorful and unsettled contemporaneous days.
Published in West Ward Quarterly, printed 2016 Winter issue.
“Genesis 01.01 – And the earth was without form, and void; darkness was upon the face of the deep. And God said, Let there be light; and there was light. And God called the light Day, and the darkness He called Night. And the evening and the morning were the first day.”
Wisdom and reason come from different steps
and sometimes the first is full nescience.
Through our lives we go struggling and learning
to sharpen our working and reasoning tools.
Time upon time and suffering upon suffering
our race has become ever better and better.
Some have reached a high degree of knowledge
and refinement but many still lie at low a level,
deserving our respect and our support.
Even God has began His creation at stage zero,
from the darkness he bequeathed us full light.
And until today all nights, taught by our Lord,
spin on an old loom weaving, ready by dawn,
pure light never tired to glorify and bless
this holy shrine we call earth.
Published in Indiana Voice Journal, February 2017 issue.
Until when will we endure the seed of evil,
suffering on the serfdom to the unrighteous,
cohabiting with nonchalance in our faith
and disavowing sacred our designs?
How much longer can we live with brothers
who can only show fears and disbelief?
Until when will we collect nightmares
than sweet dreams we ever long for?
How much longer do we need to recognize
love and purity by which we were made
and from so long have abjured?
Indeed we are a God sons’ battalion fighting against
an army of the fallen angels, never able to stand up,
but still dangerous and malevolent ones.
May our struggle continue until Isaiah 11.6 is fulfilled:
“The wolf will live with the lamb and
the leopard will lie with the goat”
On streets and alleys, squares and corners,
roads, meadows and mountains,
walking or anchored in the sun, moon, rain
or snow, in a the good mood; sometimes,
in a mood swing; we go discovering new friends.
Attracted by similarities or else curious
for the differences, we enrich our mind and
happily dip into other tastes and treats, what
always alleviates our day to day.
Some of these friends, in due time or even
instantly, are chosen to be our lovers;
this is the natural way of things and
we must not deny it.
But, friends or lovers, we must not forget
to take them from our conquered mind,
yet conquered spirit, to the inner of heart
and feel if it remains in peace.
“Blessed are the poor in spirit”, our Lord said,
and I dare to say: blessed are the rich in the heart!
Published in Indiana Voice Journal, February 2017 issue.
-After “Night Hawks”, oil on canvas, 1942, by Edward Hopper-
Night that brings with itself lack of love,
hesitation on living, even fear, as escaping
and fleeing from world’s demands.
Night passing far away from others not long ago,
paraphrased by so many poets always praising,
since ancient times, beauty of mutual warmth
and human complicity.
People hidden in a furtive safety of a dull bar,
unable to come out of their shells and share
some good news, perhaps hidden desires or
love secrets, yet distrust and uncertainties.
Yet unable to reach that souls’ communion,
entire and unique humans’ purpose,
fearful to break supposed barriers,
walls and fences separating us.
Where the firmness of our ancestors, never afraid
to penetrate dangers of dark and haunted nights?
Where the joy and smiles, where the words that had spoken
their dreams and drawn their desires?
Words and desires that built the world they bequeathed us
which we are about to lose, deaf and dumb for its beauties.
Unhappy and disinterested, we will transfer to our sons
only aridity and dryness, our aloofness and our despair.
Published in Young Ravens Literary Review, issue 6, Summer 2017 issue.
http://www.youngravensliteraryreview.org
Published in Culture Cult Magazine, summer 2017 issue
Published in The Chamber Magazine, Sep 24 2021
http://www.thechambermagazine.com
Somewhere, sometime, in the old East Lands,
in a spot relieved for four rivers, shadowed
by luxurious a garden, at royal a manor house
and by one sixth labor day, we awakened to life.
Made on the Creator’s likeness, by many years
we enjoyed His care and His love.
Once, by uncovering life secrets,
like good and evil,
our ancestors were banished,
having been locked the Paradise Gate
and initiated hard and harsh our toiling.
How long more will last our penalty?
When and where should we meet again?
Although heavy sternness demonstrated,
be aware many of us still venerate You,
and, some, still love.
We hope to see once more inhabited
that manor house where all has begun,
and, appeasing Your heart,
You disarm some cherubims’ flaming swords.
Someday I will die,
and even if they send my soul to the heavens,
I know I will be forever homesick.
For sure, I will be longing for my days on earth,
remembering old surprising scarlet red sunsets
preceding soft nights where happily I had met
lovely and unforgettable women, sisters
our race has refined in such a beauty
never seen anywhere or anytime else.
Longing for a world made by ourselves, humans
full of many faults, sins and mismatches, stripped
of gifts inherent to a God or a Creator, however
never lacking incessant and true-hearted a love.
Longing for the smell of wet ground from which
our ancestors once were created;
longing for the birds’ carols perched on trees
where indomitable free winds sway their leaves
and also leave their song;
longing for the days of glory on winning struggles
once we had supposed were lost.
Longing for a man once alive who believed
he could one day be a king in his kingdom.
Published in Algebra of Owls, February 01, 2017.
Today I opened my mourning’s season.
I cried for the lack of solidarity and brotherhood,
for the existence, till today, of countries’ borders,
increasing inequalities and suffering among people;
for the estrangement among whites and blacks,
yellows and browns, Christians and Muslims;
for the rich who reach water from golden faucets
and the poor who carry it in the buckets;
for the wine and salmon tables of the mansions
and yesterday’s bread passing from hand to hand;
for the security of the politicians for the coming years
and the fear of the common people for tomorrow;
for the dreams of the righteous, that have not come true
and the audacity of the insolents who are not intimidated;
for my lack of faith that everything is in our Lord’s hands
and in His extreme love for us.
My tears have washed my body and eased my soul.
When I die, no need to cry more.
I have already cried for what matters, at least for me.
Published in Red Wolf Journal, November 16, 2016.
http://www.redwolfjournal.wordpress.com
Published in Spirit Fire Review, issue 10, June 2017.
edilsonmeloferreira 