sábado, 22 de agosto de 2009


The well-built house has fallen to the ground.
There is no God among us anymore.
Our bay leaves wither, our prophets are a bore
And not a single new spring has been found.
So you made a cockpit of your bedroom
And opening electronic windows up
You scan the universe for kicks, and zoom
A distant face to get a fake close up;
And yet when everything's quite like a lie
And only what is terrible seems true
You find within your heart a strange devotion
Toward that star against an ignorant sky:
You know its shimmering artificial blue
Has been delivered by the deepest ocean.

Antônio Cícero
(Brasil-Rio de Janeiro 1.945)

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