LAST CYCLE © 2008
For thirty summers in a row,
Anger and malaria reaping the fields,
The population fled, their faces lost,
Running down the road, under the white winds.
They fled to the capital of saints,
Where they hoped to find redemption,
On the mountains, many bodies remained,
Others wept, with no direction.
Where to go? They dreamed of beautiful places,
Where the sky touched the earth with sweetness,
And one day, they finally arrived at the desolate,
Grateful for the peace, far from torture.
Far from the smoke, the flames of hell,
From the shivers, from the wealthy fools,
They found in the silence, so eternal,
A place where they could be their own poles.
But the sea, always present, made them remember,
Brought nostalgia, deeply rooted,
And so, in the vast, infinite peace of their gaze,
They found the eternal calm they desired.