quarta-feira, 19 de novembro de 2014



I held out my generous hands
to as many as I was allowed to
and said: I am God.
However, who believed it?
I was humiliated,
scorned: faggot God?
I was denied and fought against.
In my paralysed love,
I closed my lips and ears.
Until the repressed love
became loose hate.

Rip heavens and hells,
oh moans and cries
of resentful love.
Screw as many as
those who have denied my love.
Break out torments
in petrified hearts.
I want to be loved
I want to be loved
I want to be loved



Oh blessed hands, that probe
the twin hills;
sacred phalanges, that amuse
in the serpent’s den.
Nations of the entire world,
here’s my song:
it is time for rejoicing, for playing
on the holy mountain.



Oh serpentecostal God
who inhabitates the twin hills,
and made my asshole
the throne of your kingdom,
holy, holy, holy spirit
who, in love, forge us,
lick me with your tongues,
kindle your fire on me,
give me the grace of the frenzy
of the delights you keep
in the paradise of the body.



I enter in the
den of the scorpion.
I am the husband of the virgin
and the pair of the barren mother.
– mother of seven children.
I play in the cave of the dragon
and in the serpentine oven
I stick my hand.
Proximal, middle and distal phalanges,
servants of the Lord of the Armies.



If you are really sincere, you shall move
the Heaven, the Earth and the deities.
If maps don’t show your route
in these waters, appeal to the inner star.
Dissipate from your chest and forehead
the desire to love that oppresses you.
Never in the soil of disdain sow
this semen, but wait for your time.
The tiger awaits the prey still
ignorant to acclaim the noble hunger.
Thirst will end up finding the spring
and you shall share your prodigies.
The humbler your boat is,
the farther you’ll go, even against the tide.


Poems by Brazilian poet Waldo Motta, translated by Flavia Wanzeller Kunsch 

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