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Onesima Silveira
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Onesima SilveiraEmigrationMen Women Children Things Who depart. Hurt Disaster Misery That hope to be drowned. Multitudes who depart! Good people Bad people Cheap women Lost men Youth with no more paths Famished children Who depart. Multitudes who depart And no one notices! Hurt of longing Hurt of departing Hurt of leaving Who should depart Hurt of expectation Of the land already known In sad stories In fearful stories And in plagues of those who returned But that attracts Because it attracts Sunday dresses Cheap watches Gaudy blouses Flashy skirts Smug shirts Old decorations Worries A pungent pain A loved one A promise And little more. A ship at the dock Motorboats attached Mornas and Sambas Waves and sobs Memories and hugs Memones and mags Prayers and screams Screams from children Parentless children Abandoned children Women directionless Men without direction ... Crowds that therefore depart With no one wanting to notice. A cutting whistle People in the steerage People on deck Things here Things there New worries An aroma of adventure Growing expectations Regret and pain Longing and dismay Accommodation and cries Mornas and more mornas Women and moonshine Guitars and cavaquinhos And crewmembers that peek Sex sold. A little bit of smoke A trace of foam And a ship that departed... Resolved situations A social relief Forgotten diligences... Miseries that go More miseries that return ... Disasters that go - More disasters that return And people who leave... Portrait I am more original than no one: Islander, clandestine, and absconded I incarcerated my dreams in the spaciou distance ... I am more poor than Job ... More repulsive than Lazarus. I give my body to the tyranny of the just Because my soul hovers beyond sky and sea Where there is no darkness nor slavery nor s My color is black, is true, is abstract My traits are inconstant and so banal That no artist can trace I am the portrait of any man Framed in the dark plot of the original sin. A Different Poem The people of the islands want a different poem For the people of the islands; A poem without exiles complaining In the calm of their existence; A poem without children nourished On the black milk of aborted time A poem without mothers gazing At the vision of their sons, motherless. The people of the islands want a different poem For the people of the islands: A poem without arms in need of work Nor mouths in need of bread A poem without boasts ballasted with people On the road to the South A poem without words choked By the harrows of silence. The people of the islands want a different poem For the people of the islands: A poem with sap rising in the heart of the BEGINNING A poem with Batuque and tchabeta and the badias of St Catherine, A poem with shaking hips and laughing ivory. The people of the islands want a different poem For the people of the islands: A poem without men who lose the seas' grace and the fantasy of the main compass points. |