For sure, people never at least imagine the way we live.

Here we have remained for so long, hidden and anonymous,

sheltered by these mountains and this incredible sky,

living side by side and close enough one to the other.

I am afraid someone might feel on the air some trace

denouncing somewhere lasts a bit of the Lost Paradise.

May fate be able to keep our country veiled forever,

for the welfare of all of them.

Foreigners’ eyes and hearts do not work like ours.

If they arrive, never would learn to walk our ways

and we would regret seeing them stumble and stumble.

Published in Amomancies, print and online issue April 21, 2015.

http://www.amomancies.com

There are some secrets that belong only to us,

like our love’s beginning – how, when, where.

They must be surely concealed from everyone,

for people never would understand that story.

Flame that rounded us like sacred aureole,

sternly, firmly and mercilessly imprisoning.

Unknown power coming from so long past

that shoved us into passionate inner circle.

No one knows,

at least fancies,

on that first day,

what kind of fire blessed us forever.

Published in Amomancies, print and online issue April 21, 2015.

http://www.amomancies.com

We cannot share with companions

that we do not catch a glimpse

of our journey’s end,

what or where we are going to.

Like human primeval hordes

we continue to come and go

on hidden crowd’s desires,

sometimes-guileful ones.

In despite of the feeling

we are pursuing threads

in old Greek a labyrinth,

we believe there is a sense

in such comings and goings.

Since this is matter of faith,

not suitable to science eyes,

it must be kept by few of us.

Published in The Stare’s Nest, February 26, 2015.

http://www.thestaresnest.com

I am not able to capture or, at least,

understand eternity, that people say

it is the congruence and consentaneity

of all human thoughts and all feelings

squeezed in a lap of time.

So a time never clashes near me

and never have I heard its sound.

I am contented with single moments,

indeed rare and randomly created,

bringing to me and my lovelies all joy,

any of such eternities could ever know,

quite human and ground-floor they are,

candid, tender-hearted and deity averse.

Published in the April 2015 issue of The Gambler.

http://www.thegamblermag.com

Published in The Basil O’Flaherty, July 2016 issue

http://www.thebasiloflaherty.weebly.com

Can you believe I had a friend in Minneapolis

who did not warn me she was no more alive?

Neither she nor anyone had prevented me.

I am not prepared for these things,

never, never will be.

I passed for there and she had passed away.

Even Minneapolis, that has two big cities,

there, nevermore  will I have another friend.

By Edilson Afonso Ferreira.

So simple one fact, one vision,

so close, clear, and plain one statement.

Our house we built five years ago,

since our marriage, plus two sons by now,

can you imagine that just today, I feel at home,

as  at my father’s and grandfather’s?

I saw, climbing by the walls – a gecko!

This little lizard, for long my ancestors’ friend,

familiar to old houses, mosquitos and gnats’

hawk-eyed predator.

I’m happy to afford dwelling to one more,

half-forgotten an acquaintance.

By now, being the sole animal in this house,

it is a deputy of our Lord’s fifth Creation Day,

prior to all of us, who are of the sixth one.

Published in the February 2015 issue of The Lake.

http://www.thelakepoetry.co.uk

My grandfather owned for life one farm,

where he and grandma raised the family,

raising also horned cattle and pigs, and

raising to the mounts a coffee plantation.

They were married for their entire life, and so

their entire offspring.

They had thirteen sons and daughters,

my father, the youngest, the thirteenth;

thirteen those who were gathered 

at the Last Supper.

The farm was known as the Water Mill.

The mill, an old one, producing corn meal

that grandma, in a brick kiln, turned into

succulent cakes.

The water from a creek that flowed down

since the hill to the mill wheels.

Then, going to the farm, we always asked

which was the route to go to Paradise,

So it was named its hinterland.

The creek was named the Singing Creek.

I always thought that after crossing the farm,

its waters flowed to one of the four rivers

that it was said relieved over Paradise.

Remembrance smells to me as of old tales

like those we hear from the Holy Scriptures.

Although I know bygones must be bygones,

I cannot avoid feeling its scent this very day,

and still I hear the Singing Creek moving wheels

of an old, ancient Water Mill.

Published in West Ward Quarterly, print issue, Spring 2014.

http://www.wwquarterly.com