Of us, only the pain remains,
which gnaws at my soul.
Where does the scent of jasmine hover?
Where does the announced spring live?
Today, the corpse of me
survives in the disarray of emotions.
Translucent dust
volutes in the dug cracks,
on the lacerated face
on the tortured body.
At the hands of pseudo-love,
the sacred feminine outraged.
The scourged flesh.
The inert soul, in the induced shortcut.
At the curve of the road,
the last train
appeals to detachment.
And you?
Coldly you crush the cigarette.
Isilda Nunes
