Equator’s Escape From Lisbon to Cabo Delgado
Guide book >> Portuguese Path1.
Whither April like a river?
Whither the days of combustible and the carburation of skin when dressed, carbon and flesh upon a bed of fire.
There are no longer carnations left to dream of.
Whither the surrender of the mind to the insolent night of divisions imploring the comfort of a burning maternal lap.
One no longer dies at the vertex of longing.
Whither that scarlet morning, the march to the sound of gazes, that voice which drove into the walls a future without age.
2.
Mud and blood in the teeth, breath stones in the mouth, birds still cure themselves of leprosy. Life is made along the way, along the way, along the way, on the way, of shadow fitting the body.
It is night, weapons utter falling stars gravitating around desire occupied by metal and the dream in vertigo tells us the breath of the earth, secreted, segregated from the world surrendered to the green gas that gives colour to the forests of those who never carved a child from trees.
The prayer of mothers remains along the way, along the way, along the way, at the border of the smile of that people long born weeping inward — no one knows of life in silence.
Whither that scarlet morning, the march to the sound of gazes — what voice will drive into the walls a future without age?
Whither the beginning of liberty?