My Tears and my Cries

I cry 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 the yesterday’s bread passing from hand to hand;

for the security of the politicians on the comings 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 have no feelings

and are not intimidated.

But I hope to have strength until my last day,

to pierce the veil that seeks to cover evil,

lifting up my sword in the Lord’s army,

always angry against injustice and oppression.

It is my faith that this will be

sacred and ultimate my soul’s redemption.

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Passionate Journey

So many beauties spread by the way,

I cannot pass without enjoying one by one.

Indeed, there are some ones so beautiful that,

besides to enjoy, should be also worshiped,

tribute and respect to the Common Creator.

Unhappily, I have amorous and stubborn a heart,

perhaps a delinquent one,

used to falling in love almost every day.

Could be it hard and insensitive,

just as almost all of them,

so I would pass fast and safe,

impassible and passionless.

But it usually picks up a song,

from unknown a spell,

fairy music of the wind, or, who knows,

resurrected Ulysses’ mermaids singing,

that, poor me, I cannot resist.

So I go, amazed and fascinated,

sometimes on despair and strained,

along with loving brothers and sisters,

daily struggling to move hard

and harsh the wheels of time.

Nothing than Praise

I have not paid to the world as much as I owe.

I was born naked; I have clothes, house, and car.

I was born unknown; I have friends, admirers,

have even had people who love me.

My body has withstood sun, rain, wind and snow,

has been spared the onslaught of viruses and microbes,

unwanted messengers of diseases and afflictions,

but, towering, persists defiant.

Evil spirits, the fallen ones, sown in wait,

have hit my carcass, my sacred helmet,

but, defeated, lie by the wayside.

I can only pay praising and worshiping, firm and strong,

body and spirit, in hope of the re-encounter with the Creator,

sacred, ultimate and legitimate human’s redemption.

Heirs

As much as they promise me eternal life,

however much they attest I shall live in Eternity,

I confess I love much more this body I was given,

as well as the dearest, sometimes also enchanted,

way of living we created for ourselves.

I am not able to conceive if there are other worlds

or other beings – people who think, speak and love

just like us.

I only know that an old book says we were made

on the sixth day of sainted and sacred a week,

in the image and likeness of the Creator.

Then, I think we could apply to be His sole heirs,

and, still on our dear earth, enter into possession

of the promised land, that Canaan where milk

and honey flow, and evil never finds shelter.

 

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

Our Tour on Earth

I do not want to wait one minute more to say

to this world some words stuck in my throat:

I love all of you!

Whites, yellows, browns, blacks,

elderly, young, children,

even the evil ones, because they must have

some strange and shady missions,

often (or always) hidden just to themselves.

It is true that daily we catch ourselves watching

a lively musical from Broadway, and then,

horrible some Greek tragedy.

As mentor and director of our tour on earth,

God uses the talents of His creatures,

like a painter mixing colors in a masterpiece.

We must accept the tones we have been given,

for it is the redemption of a destiny and a duty

allocated to us, it would be good to believe,

even before the beginning of our own time.

Encounter on the Road Curves

It was not on the straight, wide and sunny road,

that I saw you.

It was on the road’s bend, so switched a curve that

almost returned to the point from which I had come.

It was in a dark and gloomy day,

where wind did not dare to appear

and people sought to hide within themselves.

Now I know that fate had given that afternoon

as precious gift to me, when set us face to face.

Then, your beauty shone, flashed like a torch,

or a beacon in dark nights driving the sailors.

You enchanted me, like a serpent with her prey,

but not devoured, only arrested and gave me love.

In the days following our meeting,

they say the sun had shone again.

It does not concern me,

for I have won you.

Cherished Daydreaming

Sitting by the road’s edge, I watch life go by.

I see men, women, old and young people.

They carry on 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 that each of us will reach,

at its own time, the promised land,

that Canaan where milk and honey spill

and evil never finds shelter.

 

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