A Fábrica do Poema
Adriana Calcanhotto
The Poem Factory
I dream of the poem of ideal architecture
Whose very cream of cement
Fits word by word, I became an expert in extracting
Sparks from the gravel and milk from the stones.
I wake up;
And the whole poem falls apart, thread by thread.
I wake up;
The building, stone and lime, flutters
Like a light paper loose at the mercy of the wind and evaporates,
Ashes of a body drained of any meaning
I wake up, and the mirage-poem dissolves
Deconstructed as if it had never been.
I wake up! eyes weighed down by the porridge of souls
And deaf ears,
That's how I come out of successive dreams:
The opium smoke rings vanish
And my fingers remain stunned.
Metonymies, alliterations, metaphors, oxymorons
Gone in the whirlpool.
It must not help much to remain on the lookout
At the ghostly top of the watchtower
Nor the simulation of sinking into sleep.
Nor truly sleeping.
For the key question is:
Under what mask will the repressed return?
