Epistrophe Magazine

Epistrophe Magazine

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Issue 1

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Epistrophe Magazine

Epistrophe Magazine

A Flor e a Náusea

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Issue 1

Imprisoned by my class and my clothes
I go in white through the gray street.
Melancholy men, shopkeepers peer at me.
Should I continue until I sicken?
Can I, unarmed, be revolted?
Dirty eyes on the clock tower:
No, the time has not come for full justice.
It is still the time of excrement, bad poems, hallucinations and hope.
The poor time, the poor poet
Stuck in the same impasse.
In vain I try to explain myself, the walls are deaf.
Under the skin of words there are ciphers and codes.
The sun consoles the sick and does not renew them.
The things. How sad are things, considered out of context.
They’ll vomit this tedium across the city.
Forty years and not a single problem
resolved, not even close.
Not a single letter written nor received.
All the men return home
They are less free but they carry newspapers
and decipher the world, knowing that they’ve lost it.
Crimes of the earth, how does it forgive them?
I took part in many, from others I hid.
Some I thought were beautiful, they were published.
Gentle crimes, that helped me live.
The daily ration of error, distributed at home.
The feral bakers of evil.
The feral milkmen of evil.
Set it all aflame, including myself.
To the boy of 1918 they called an anarchist.
However, my hate is better than me.
With it I save myself
and give at least a little faint hope.
A flower rose from the street!
Far away they pass by, trams, buses, rivers of steel traffic.
A flower, though faded
Evades the police, breaks the asphalt.
Be completely silent, stop your business,
I assure you that a flower rose.
Its color is unnoticed.
Its petals don’t open.
Its name is not in the books.
It is ugly. But it is truly a flower.
I sit on the ground in the country’s capital at five in the afternoon and lightly pass my hand over this frail thing.
Beside the mountains, dense clouds swell
Little white points dance on the surface of the sea, startled chickens
It is ugly. But it is a flower. It pierced the asphalt, the boredom, the disgust and the hate.

Epistrophe Magazine

About

A Flor e a Náusea

Scroll

Issue 1

Imprisoned by my class and my clothes
I go in white through the gray street.
Melancholy men, shopkeepers peer at me.
Should I continue until I sicken?
Can I, unarmed, be revolted?
Dirty eyes on the clock tower:
No, the time has not come for full justice.
It is still the time of excrement, bad poems, hallucinations and hope.
The poor time, the poor poet
Stuck in the same impasse.
In vain I try to explain myself, the walls are deaf.
Under the skin of words there are ciphers and codes.
The sun consoles the sick and does not renew them.
The things. How sad are things, considered out of context.
They’ll vomit this tedium across the city.
Forty years and not a single problem
resolved, not even close.
Not a single letter written nor received.
All the men return home
They are less free but they carry newspapers
and decipher the world, knowing that they’ve lost it.
Crimes of the earth, how does it forgive them?
I took part in many, from others I hid.
Some I thought were beautiful, they were published.
Gentle crimes, that helped me live.
The daily ration of error, distributed at home.
The feral bakers of evil.
The feral milkmen of evil.
Set it all aflame, including myself.
To the boy of 1918 they called an anarchist.
However, my hate is better than me.
With it I save myself
and give at least a little faint hope.
A flower rose from the street!
Far away they pass by, trams, buses, rivers of steel traffic.
A flower, though faded
Evades the police, breaks the asphalt.
Be completely silent, stop your business,
I assure you that a flower rose.
Its color is unnoticed.
Its petals don’t open.
Its name is not in the books.
It is ugly. But it is truly a flower.
I sit on the ground in the country’s capital at five in the afternoon and lightly pass my hand over this frail thing.
Beside the mountains, dense clouds swell
Little white points dance on the surface of the sea, startled chickens
It is ugly. But it is a flower. It pierced the asphalt, the boredom, the disgust and the hate.

Epistrophe Magazine

Epistrophe Magazine

Epistrophe Magazine

Epistrophe Magazine

Epistrophe Magazine