Climbing the narrow steep alleys
leading up to the favela
gave my heart added beats
and the feeling of belonging
grew like a cloud of paper kites
over shanty brick and concrete houses
as I walked yet higher up
into the sunlit slanting village
with a view leaping more magnificent
with every bare bricked dwelling
and tempting bar I passed.
The sea at a low distance,
the figure of he who defied death
at the other end of dark fuel
and motions of a gang,
the rule of the steep alleyways,
atop roofs of good view
and a full moon at all cost.
A cold beer is a window
without glass or intention
other then the beingness,
the present cannot preserve.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem