Thursday, June 1, 2023



The Lakes Under My Heart


May arrived punctually, as if there were

an appointment between the mystic

of flowers and thunderstorms of silence,

bringing roses, linden flowers

and tasty red cherries.

The morning dew whispered the encounter

between time and me.

I was born on May 12,

the swallows were returning from their migration

from warm atmospheres.

May has always been happy and sad,

like an anniversary day.

When I was a child, May was the fantasy

of a little old chapel where novenas

echoed in the evening.

On the way, I stared at an old mansion,

rambling roses on walls covered by ivy,

moss and lilies.

The apple trees bloomed

and the peaches were ripe in my eyes.

In the little chapel, there were linen towels,

the martyrdom of S. Victor-o-Velho

was intertwined with the scent of roses,

apple blossoms and the mystique of incense.

May arrived punctually, like a bird, a fruit,

in days of songs, rituals,

between prayers, harps, a shelter

and the splendour of the light.

From that time, from the days of May,

the waters flowed punctually

every year,

into lakes lying under my heart.




Within the labyrinth, all the doors close

and open up; no one knows

how to decode the exit signs.

We forgot the ancient wisdom

of the haruspices reading the bewilderment

on the liver, along with the maps of stars,

a long time ago.

Our astral path moves now over put out

fire and brain circumvolutions.

The writing ink is the open spot

Bringing forth our forgotten voice.

Within the labyrinth, everything converges:

fire, pomegranates - silent paths.

And the precise words

ploughing the underground flowers

the alleys where the sky

falls apart in fragile volutes

of the immortality of time.


Winds Of Fortune


I'm leaving tomorrow on the bright shine

of the sun,

on the white and uneasy days

of the moon,

cleaning my soul in kindest

drops of rain.


My self is imprinted in everlasting waves

of overnight balance.

Once, you were the music of my spellbound


But I was sick, not telling your eyes

from my unceasing pain.

I was drunk,

intoxicated with magical herbs,

and charms of ancient stones.


Maybe I still dream of enchanting


but I know that words are of no use.


I must leave now.

Life moves forward with its up

and downs.

Blind winds of fortune drive our destiny.

I long for healing hands and calming balms.

My pain is driving me.


My ailments are many centuries-long.




MARIA DO SAMEIRO BARROSO (Portugal) is a Medical Doctor, a Germanist and a multilingual, global awarded poet, translator, essayist and researcher in Portuguese and German Literature, Translations Studies and History of Medicine. She is a Member of Honor of the Association Alia Mundi from Serbia, an Ambassador of Literacy and Culture of the ASIM SASAMI INDONESIA GLOBAL WRITERS of Indonesia.

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