LAST CYCLE © 2008

With the face gathered between the palms,

Cracked hands half-open to the wind,

A ray of light, in the distance, calms,

While the flames consume the thought.

Uncertain souls, restless in their pain,

The inner self congested, traffic halted,

The urn moves, without haste or fervor,

In a golden carriage, an unrestrained luxury.

The line, like a column that grows and extends,

Reaches the frontier, the barrier of life,

And in difference, knowledge still defends,

The teacher who never forgot the lesson learned.

In school times, still a girl,

Playing, catrapone and blind man's buff,

In brief recesses, the thin bell

Rang, calling her to study, without deny.

The compulsory gathering, in austere sound,

Was the foretaste of new discoveries,

Where writing, without copying or error,

Evolved in hands that stayed awake.

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