Black on Movement,
Seated by a Lake,
Mixed with Ducks and fish,
Ascending to breath.
The Movement of a Man,
With two pieces of each of his clothes,
Washing his rags against itself,
Not staring at anyone.
Just on movement, the homeless,
By the Lake of the Ibirapuera,
In Sao Paulo, a Park,
Filled of people, moving.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem