Monday, 27 September 2010

A Minha Língua é Minha

It rockets downwards like a meteor in flames,
burning its way through the infinity of black skies.
It comes in the form of Ellie, and fire, and smoke;
it comes in the form of Miller, and life, and being alone.

It is in the steps of Cesar and the Montague's reproach,
found also in the tip of the tongue
of Nietzsche and Donne,
and forever in Adolf's inexistent son.

It's in my father and your father and our
father’s demise.
In the prominence of youth, seen through
their eyes.

It is in the diseased words of Cazuza
and of Generation AIDS.
Aussi bien que dans l'âge du rêve Américain,
but aren't they both the same?

It comes from the now, and the then,
and the what if's of when.
From knowing the great -
to those that should have been so.
We could have been so.

As she sets the world on fire,
and he pulls it back together,

A Minha Língua é a Sua.

My Language is Yours.

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