Monday, January 14, 2013

pray among the men

          by andré boniatti

when the prostitute passes by, oh Lord,
that i don’t turn down my eyes.

the colour don’t be to me a detail, neither from the eyes, neither from the skin.
that everybody have equal cheeks and better hearts
for me, oh Lord.

that they be tall the same meters i am,
in every meters i am.

that when i think what i see is absurd or ridiculous or strange or spurious,
that i know that i’m seeing, that it’s just my eyes,
— what stupids, my eyes that invent obstacles to look at.
they look at suspicious and distrustful,

that someday my eyes can see with love, — when the prostitute passes by
and everyone, oh Lord!

that someday we can think the way we are,
in freedom. that someday we can make the way
we make, that we have wisdom.  

that someday we can be true, since the birth. reasonable.

but, before it, we learn something.
that we understand the conjugation of “we” in the silence of us.
(that before we judge us christian we can understand jesus: plebeian of nazareth,
philosopher and poet, singing of

inteligence and heart,

and that never have left one for another: inteligence and heart.
how fool are the men, my heaven’s jesus!)

how fool are the men: in the pea of themselves ego concentrated (introspectively) — hurting all around; as if all their world was a
perfect nucleous of pride and arrogance!

but, after all, they’re nothing.
after all, they’re equal one another, one to the other,
and to everything,

one thing to the world just more.
and, even thus: “more”, they don’t add; dyslexics and retracteds:

the men go nowhere!

when the prostitute passes by, oh Lord,
we can see the out of us, we don’t mask
ourselves seeing.

that our soul understand that it’s just silly matter, shape in the wind: your body, your creed, your fit and the mine,
that green from the heart inside and starts to live in this time, that passes,
(this space, that blows);

that be more soft my body, your body,
‘cause they don’t be sunk;

(when the love opens my heart. when the love opens my heart. when the love opens my heart.)

that i be all entirely within,
without, right — when the sundown of my life start.
that i have no doubt about my integrity;
that my cry be for guilty,
bald silver-head intrepid emotion,

but that i don’t be killed before i will. that i could cry!

that i don’t sleep without feeling me (absolutely)
wasted out. all on me,
when the time
go down. when the bright of my soul be rightly to fall.

and then — good bye!

but that i be armed,
reverentially armed, light, far and flighty,
with no disagree;

when the non-prophecy be real,
when the rest
when me, my grandma, my mother, my love...

— when the prostitute passes by,
oh Lord!

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