The Roses Withered
The roses
withered in the dryness of your gaze!
I no longer
dream of them, my dear! I no longer cry for them!
Our bodies,
which were once just one,
Today are
wrecked in the solitude of the words unsaid.
I get involved
in a feeling of longing and lethargy,
Fixing the old
clock still, at a time that was once ours...
At a time when
we loved each other like the sea and the sky.
And I petrify
myself on that horizon,
Where my body
made anchorage as a boat.
Reality deranges
me!
Maddened by the
echo of your tread on bare walls,
That implicit
farewell in the disquiet of your hands
And in the
sagging of your will!
The slow arrival
of winter disturbs me!
The roses you
gave me have already withered!
The wet kisses
of the older days, are now sinfully dried!
All embrace has
expired!
And the grooves
on my face exude tired memories,
Loose pieces of
a plot that is no longer ours.
The mouth dried
up in the refusal of the farewell,
In this delayed
death, suspended in the solitude of unsaid words!
I no longer
dream of them, dear! I no longer cry!
The roses
withered in the dryness of your gaze!
The Son Of The War
You know mother,
yesterday I heard you crying.
I was scared,
Mom.
I realised that
your tears did not augur a good thing.
Dad hasn't
stroked my head in days,
nor you sing
Nina Nana.
I feel cold,
Mama! I feel night!
I can't sleep.
I hear,
continuously, thunders that shatter my soul.
Sirens that
pierce my body.
Bullets that
assassinate my future.
I sink in the
anxiety that floods your womb in convulsions.
Your heart seems
to explode.
Your body seems
to expel me.
I try to hold on
to the cord that coils around my foot.
In vain. It
slips away.
Mother, I'm
afraid!
Afraid of living
in Humanity.
Afraid of dying
and killing.
Don't you love
me anymore, Mother?
In The Dead City
in the dead
city,
to the cross of
indifference,
flow dreams into
liquid crematoriums.
the madness
decreed ride
shipwrecked
desires,
on common
walkways.
in the dead
city,
Hunger, thirst,
invades hospices.
ghosts play at
children
And old people
get childhood.
emigrated the
hugs.
There are no
bridges to cross the night.
there are sales
in this river,
pain on this
ship.
Charon smokes a
cigarette in the main ditch.
simply blackout.
simply silence.
only tomb
in the dead
city.
and me?
and you?
and us?
The Poem Is Born
Summon up the
gods!
In incongruous
morosity, blaspheme the stars.
The cosmos in
disarray exudes words
that vogue in
the subjective interjections of nothingness.
In the
interstices of dreams
Desires pulse in
bulimic catharsis
And in
alchemical childbirth the poem is born.
ISILDA NUNES
ISILDA NUNES is a writer, poet
and artist who has been awarded with many prizes and recognitions. Her poems
have been published in anthologies, magazines and newspapers in about fifty
countries and translated into more than forty languages. She is co-author of
some sixty national and international anthologies and author of books of poetry
and prose. She has participated and organised numerous national and
international cultural, literary and solidarity events in her country and
abroad. She is: Founder and President of the Assembly of the Association UMEA
(World Union of Writers and Artists); Chairperson of the Language, Literature
and Oratory Art Committee of Modern Pythian Games; President Pythian
Games-Portugal; President of the Continental Union Ciesart and Presidency
Council; Director General of the Ciesart Advisers and President of CIESART in
Portugal; Member of the Board of Directors of Editorial Atunis; Full Member of
the LIK Academy; Ambassador and Portuguese Language Editor of the international
multilingual literary magazine The Archer; Vice-President MEL (Mulheres
Empreendedoras da Lusofonia); International Consultant and Member of the
preliminary Jury for China Poetry Garden Magazine; Chronicler at Helicayenne
Magazine; Ambassador for Peace and Humanity IFCH Morocco; Associate Editor at
Chinese Poetry Circle magazine University; Honorary Member of the Movements:
MIL, ALDCI, Lírio Azul and CEMD.
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