Inner Babel / Babel Interior

Luta pelos outros É chamada de cachorra É negra Exige direitos Como tem a pachorra? Todo dia um 7 a 1 Vive sempre na gangorra Sem ninguém que lhe socorra E a linha é sempre fina entre o justo e a masmorra E se eu soubesse, tinha gritado: - Marielle, corra! Se eu pudesse, tinha implorado: - Marielle, não morra! créditos da foto:    Márcia Foletto/Agência O Globo

All the faces of men I've loved visit me in the quiet night of my noisy brain All the ones I once loved and came to hate or forget or pretend to have forgotten Lost in the cloud of indifference  I've carefully created All of them come back  filling the emptiness  of my broken beaten banal heart In this quiet night of my  crowded  noisy brain T hey march firmly towards me stop and stare Inches away and shoot their questions right between my shortsighted eyes Why? Why not? How much? How little? They give me no time to answer They move and vanish like ghosts of the Christmas past Some fierce and revengeful  pass on the judgement they've held in long You! They shout Too bold! Too coward! Too hot! Too cold! Too little! Too much! I try to touch a face or another I remember them Especially the ones I've hidden so well from myself "Hey, look at you! I thought you were no more!" ...

When you are the shadow of a star stret ched over the world map, crossing land and water, far and close to your own constellation. When you're here and beyond, when you have everything and long for more still. When you let by gones be by gones and it is possible to be "one and still be plural". When you "see the fine line separating here and there", and upon seeing it, you're not content until you've crossed it. When you wish to be here and yonder and you want to love, to love, to love.