LAST CYCLE © 2008

In the midst of the streets, the vendors,

With breasts swaying in search,

Feed the hungry mouths in the threshing floors,

In the shade of the soul, a tree of freshness.

The scope of action, reduced and small,

Under the scorching sun, burns the skin,

In the lack of a firm hand, a ground

That seals the suffering, without further tumult.

May it, at last, be a sealed box,

Where pain can no longer escape,

And the message, clear, be deciphered

In the candle that will drift.

At the end of the beach, where the breeze sings,

It refreshes the feet of an African princess,

And departs, along the enchanting road,

Seeking to balance life, from side to side, sovereign.

Tomorrow always brings opportunities,

In the fruit business, in vegetables,

But the morning pains and difficulties

Devour time, with their laziness.

They dream one day of leaving the toil,

To be prostrated, to nothing, to silence,

In the lethargy of a cunning fairy,

Dressed in ornaments on a colourful scarf.

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