I walk in the streets, alleys and squares,

I see and hear all kind of people.

I still feel even a bit of their souls.

Whites, blacks and yellows,

adults, children and the elderly,

they are my fellow ones, comrades

on the biggest walk, in route

to the admirable new world,

the land once promised, so long ago.

Instead, perhaps should I go

back to that sixth day of one holy week,

to ask our Creator if this is the way

He had thought for His people.

Also, if the time for forgiveness has not come,

disarming some cherubim’s flaming swords,

still on guard at the Paradise Gate.

Treasured a Past

No one, other than myself, needs or should know about my past.

It is sacred a shrine, not open to public visitation in any way.

I am sure some guardian angels have been in duty,

around me, since my birth, even since I was conceived.

I believe, more so, they had approached and induced

a couple of young lovers, to the holy mission to add

to our world a new soul, a new being.

All this with the complicity and blessings of God,

lord and mentor of all destinations.

Every time I fell and got up,

was wrong, then corrected and forgiven,

my tears wiped and the hope renewed,

has strengthened and put me on the right track

to the land once promised to our ancestors.

That where milk and honey flow, and evil

never finds shelter, which, I surely believe

and hope, is waiting for us not far beyhond

the horizon of upcoming so happy a day.


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


Cherished Belief

Someday, somewhere,

I will get you only for me,

just for me, apart, separate,

from the entire world.

Then, I will kiss your red lips

with all holiness, born through

sacred, chaste and sinless a love.

Witnessed and blessed  by the creator,

so, there will exist no time or clock,

day or night, reason or laws.

It will be the fulfillment of a story,

kept secret and secluded, although,

we both know,

written and settled since always,

by solemn and unique a destiny.


Published in The Basil O’Flaherty, spring 2019 issue.

Sad Surprise

I did not know,

neither did my wife,

that our marriage had become a rarity.

We meet every five years with former colleagues,

celebrating the anniversary of our graduation,

party that has become traditional.

By the latter, celebrating twenty years, we were troubled,

even frightened, being greeted with such comments:

It is true that you are still married!

Have you not yet separated yourselves?

Something wrong must be happening!

They gave us weird looks,

some of them even suggested a psychologist.

Undesirable and unimaginable a reality,

which we are not prepared for.

My spouse and I agree never more attend these events.

O tempora! O mores! –  said Cicero.

What time, what customs! –  do we say!

Dreams, Dramas, Desires

Again alive, from

ambushes assembled by enemies in unsuspected corners,

by inoffensive and ordinary days;

unexpected malicious comments and dirty looks

of people always counted as faithful friends;

unknown and treacherous diseases,

out of reason or occasion to appear;

sleepless nights, frightened by horrible nightmares,

or sunny days, suddenly turned to cold and sullen ones;

recurrent sweet dreams appearing without warning,

in pensive and lonely nights,

remembrance of the woman you still love.

Again alive and unlearned from harsh past lessons,

so is the destiny of amorous, stubborn and delinquent a heart.


Published in Tree House Arts, Feb 20, 2019


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

Friends, Land and Flowers

I am guilty of not having many loves

and few people have being my friends.

I am a man of old-fashioned customs,

the one who hopes to be duly introduced

and then exchange a full conversation.

Forgotten refinement of the times of yore,

etiquette learned in the old social rites.

My friends are few, faithful and heartfelt,

not subject to the usual taps on the back,

easy laughs and feigned cuddling.

They are always austere, even stern,

but never fail when you need them.

Never accustomed to false praise

and empty words,

but prompt, effective and friendly deeds.

Like the land where I was born and raised,

dry plateaus and arid hills, narrow creeks

and honest meagre sheaves by the harvest.

Stubborn trees that, unlike the others,

wait for the driest season to bloom,

naked even of leaves, find strength

to bring forth delicate yellow flowers,

resembling pure and true gold.


Published in Young Ravens, issue 9, December 2018.

Published in Better Than Starbucks, September 2019