Brazil

I looked to the fire that burned on the fireplace, while outside the snow fell smoothly. Wrapped on a blanket, just the tip of my white socks could be seen and hinted on an old and red blanket. I thought… remembered lived hours, while the firewood burned and become coal.

I had started the scripture again. Wanted to write tales, chronicles, it's enough of poetry. After all poetry doesn't feed anyone, no one reads, no one buys. We live on a practice world, to supply an immediately necessity, where the bread and beans are urgent on a family home. (It's a sin because the poetry is the living soul of people, it's the action's movement with emotion, it's the fragment's register of a time that peter out an flow like a slippery liquid on a crack on the stone.) In this context, on really, I must stop to write, open a supermarket. Há! I don't have enough money to do this! But, a bar with cachaça will give more money than write, and a leisure night house. Don't talk!