Kapoor (Epilogue)

Sérgio Medeiros

The sun was dirty, or it looked so, on the street and on the sidewalk. There was a spent breath placed there, amidst disfigured children.


We entered, we were three. Fresh shadows and lights, like in the imposing library, with guards. Here is:


The mist descends and struggles below / 

or the mist goes up and its feet

disappear while its mane,

on the top, entangles itself

with the architecture…


The skeleton of the mist

is like an…

extremely long void

and, when going dark,

hides in its breath target…


The mist is a finger 

touching the ceiling / or

a huge nail of a finger


stuck in the ground…


(Around, always

up: the walls don’t talk, 

but have Adam’s apple

emphasized / in front of the mirror,

our crumbled reflexes fly

everywhere, like a flock

of swift birds.)


*This poem could be called “Author’s self-portrait.”


English translation by Raymont L. Bianchi

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