“Genesis 1-27 – So God created mankind in his own image,

                             in the image of God he created them;

                             male and female he created them”


This is how our history has been told in your book,

in the words of your saints and prophets,

a matter we must never doubt of.

Forgive us for questioning, but where

the power and mastery we should display,

which we have been looking for so long?

Where the wisdom and clearness like yours,

where our eternal life or, at least, someone like

that of Methuselah, who lived for nine hundred

and sixty-nine years?

We lived by your side so little, and quickly

You banished us, locking the Paradise Gate,

there placing those cherubims brandishing

their deathly flaming swords.

Perhaps, in lieu of immortality, we developed

greatest and warmest a love, for and from

each one of us, what You could ever dream of.

Perhaps, may You believe,

having forgotten your primeval purpose,

boldly, unconsciously,

so we would prefer to continue living.


Who will read?

Plowing the fields and producing wheat, oats and beans;

rising sheep, cows and pigs;

raising and spreading children and instilling in them

those dreams we were not able to turn into reality.

Throwing rails, roads, bridges and ports,

cities, skyscrapers, churches and cathedrals,

always leaving fences and borders;

creating worlds only ours,

incapable and fearful to co-habit the one

that has been given to us in full.

Boasting and toasting in life’s daily feast,

trying to write our history which has begun

in that sixth day of the divine journey of creation.

They who will read our history will know it was lived

with such a love and endearment, though absent from

the power and glory of its creator.


Published in the March 2018 issue of Snapdragon A Journal of Art and Healing. .

Rescued to Life

Nights distant in time, long as it seemed they were eternal,

endlessly spreading their darkness,

not knowing that it was scheduled, at dawn,

a new day, a new sun, renewed hope.

Ghosts, diseases, afflictions, with valid and stamped passports,

like sinister nocturnal animals loose adrift,

swarmed from house to house and soul to soul,

making villainous and sordid harvest for soulless lords.

Our parents and ancestors surpassed such olden nights

and today, free and forgotten of horrendous nightmares,

we dance and sing,

boasting and toasting in life’s feast,

throwing to the skies sound and honest a laughter.


Published in Purple Fire Publications, Oct. 13, 2018.



In cathedrals and churches,

abbeys and convents;

in the small chapels on the top of the mountains;

in pilgrimages and spiritual retreats

and in the rooms of those who are secluded in house

and cannot leave anymore;

in the sound of the wind that cradles and pushes us

and in the rain that washes and makes us grow;

even in the mute silence of the hidden seed in the womb of earth,

that knows and expects its time to join our world;

everything and everyone congregate at the sacred Te Deum

in honor and glory to the Spirit of our common Creator.

Salvific chant we are never tired of,

truth that redeems and gives us strength

on the journey to Canaan, the promised land

where pours the milk and honey.


Published in Spirit Fire Review, September 2018 issue.



The Missed Deadline

The magazine my wife reads has launched,

for Mother’s Month, a writing contest.

A married woman should report works

and troubles on raising her children,

showing the drudgery of everyday life.

To the winner, an unpriced diamond ring.

A brilliant writer, surely confident in her pen

and in her extreme love for our three sons,

soon she started writing.

Then, there was a lot of school homework,

the babysitter left our service

and our youngest child has become ill.

Today, work still incomplete,

she missed the contest deadline.

I’m rightly concerned one diamond ring

will wrongly adorn some mother’s hand.


Published in Spirit Fire Review, April 2018 issue


On Brothers, Journeys and Faith

Beyond that corner,

beyond my neighborhood,

besides my town and roads abroad,

even above these clouds

and distant worlds,

there’re people I’ll never know about.

They don’t feel how much I love them,

for I’m sure we’re all brothers,

conceived on that primeval wellspring,

long, long ago, on that saint sixth day

of the divine journey of creation.

Since then, by meager strengths

and unlimited one faith,

we’ve been colonizing our dear earth,

on our own journey pursuing,

day after day, the promised new land.

The biblical one, where honey and milk flow,

which, I believe, we’ll encounter not so far

from the horizon of upcoming a happy day.


Published in Tree House Arts, April 11, 2018.


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







Because my Heart hears

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 an amorous, affectionate

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.