segunda-feira, novembro 29, 2004
On a monsoon of sand.
(the silence of the desert landscape frightens me…)
but did this – boots deep on the red hills – really happen?
Getting of the cockpit…
I feel my brown equipment with my
In search, in search of
(did this… really happen?)
I have nothing to do with this war…
But who ever has anything to do with any war?
Running like a child…
In the top of the hill, knees down on the uneasy floor:
Beneath the dark mantle of the universe,
I smile thinking that someone sowed pearls into the dark night:
How can we own this red meadows?
Far away there are distant city lights,
Squadrons of low flying fighters ,
Flashes of artillery,
But no sound.
Clear waves in the plowed blood filled earth,
That leads to where people make their lives,
Where they live and die,
Where they are born and become envious.
It’s easy to return
- I think holding my poor reserve of water -
I’m a soldier
- looking at my destroyed biplane -
Then the moon begins to rise high,
and tears roll down my rugged face…
as I stretch my arms to engulf its diameter…
In the sincere dialogue of man and nature…
I’m a man…
That has nothing to do with this war…