'In the very antechambers of feeling
it is forbidden to be explicit...'
- Pessoa
Is it alright then, to be a cult?
A solitary?
To substitute oneself for God,
albeit casually?
What the hot sun
doesn't kill it punishes
with lethargy, save
the birds, who give
themselves up
to thermals.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem