I remember sounds and faces of my past,

love’s vows, hot hugs and flamed kisses.

Romantic nights and parties, best songs,

best friends, nostalgic life’s expectations.

But my beloved expectations always were,

year by year, the singing of a bird.

A pheasant cuckoo strong hammering

two potent whistles, that, by no error,

all of us by then so listened:

summer comes, summer comes!

It was single a cuckoo that every year

worked with peculiar trill to announce

oncoming days of most desired season.

We never saw but always heard its song

only appearing and sounding once a year.

Its chant has been lost and our summer

has not ever been the same, without

that hammering dear beat.

Published in Whispers, October 04 2015.

http://www.whispersinthewind333.blogspot.com

To my spouse, stepmother to my two daughters.

 

You were born to blow into three souls,

giving them life that was prompt to vanish,

packing up, leading ahead, making new ones.

While with us, you have appeased and healed.

When they take you to the bottom of the earth

and your soul rises to the heavens, be careful.

Touch us and the planet gently, so enlarged

will be your power we cannot even dream of.

Published in the Lake, October 2015 issue.

http://www.thelakepoetry.co.uk

We are siblings not by birth, but by unusual

and mutual adoption, begun by so odd and

stubborn a love.

I will soon discover one route that reach

some exquisite beauties waiting for me,

lost and forgotten in hidden waterfalls,

after untrodden ways.

Outdoors, on sunny days and blue a sky,

I ride the wind to see all beauties spread

by all this earth.

We enter into night like pilgrims

looking for lovers hidden in the laps

of incongruous, unfriendly, ruthless time.

Day is done, carrying words I said, but, by night,

some untold ones resonate heavily and painfully

on the depths of my heart.

Your words cherish me, even if you shout,

but some crucial silences resound heavily,

making my entire soul into pieces.

Le voyage d’un pèlerin.

Par Edilson Afonso Ferreira.

French translation, by Rebecca Banks and the author, of

“A Pilgrim’s Journey”.

Je me promène par sourde, presque secrètement,

comme un fantôme par des coins d’une ville endormie,

peur qu’ils pourraient réveiller et me emprisonner

pour mourir à l’aube sous une lumière

si impitoyable et si mortelle.

Publié en Poésie Bleu Souterrain, Juin 2015.

http://www.subterraneanbluepoetry.com