quinta-feira, 15 de abril de 2010
Última parte do poema "The children"
We must all stop dying in the little ways,
in the craters of hate,
in the potholes of indifference -
a murder in the temple.
The place I live in
is a kind of maze
and I keep seeking
the exit or the home.
Yes if I could listen
to the bulldog courage of those children
and turn inward into the plague of my soul
with more eyes than the stars
I could melt the darkness -
as suddenly as that time
when an awful headache goes away
or someone puts out the fire -
and stop the darkness and its amputations
and find the real McCoy
in the private holiness
of my hand.
A expressão "the real McCoy" quer dizer a coisa real, a coisa verdadeira.
Não é lindo?