Brasileira
Wander in my poem,
As if on the beaches of Copacabana.
Lay down on every one of its words,
as if on the warm, hazelnut sand.
Let the sun color your skin
and rest upon your back.
Forget who you are,
as I have been trying to do for so long.
For I have smelled you in my Santos coffee
And heard you laugh in the MPB accordions;
And my sight has never seen a shade of green and yellow
without your ambling silhouette.
Eu te vejo na cada esquina da rua.
What is to be done
when one is so happily wretched?
I write for there is more solace in writing
than in my unsettling contemplation;
For you dwell even in my logic,
Disturbing my every sense,
Disquieting my every silence,
leaving there no logic whatsoever;
My mind like São Paulo in rush hour;
My body in a state that no simile
can ever contain.
As you approach, like Sunday morning tropical rain,
No umbrella to hide under today,
no worthless poetry to write, no imploring words to say;
For my Arab tongue stutters
with Portuguese dismay,
as if censored in another
Freudian dream theory;
For after all,
no one dares to speak of arbitrary passion.
Wander in my poem,
as if on the beaches of Copacabana.
Let my verses melt in desire like moss on a stone.
Let me laugh at myself as I read through them
until this desire ceases to be my own.
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