Ruy Belo Poems

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Birds are born on the tips of trees
The trees I see yield birds instead of fruit
Birds are the liveliest fruit of trees

And everything was possible

When I was still young before I left home
ready to travel around in the world
I already knew about the waves' breaking
from the pages of all the books I'd read

Anniversary Mass

It's been one year since your steps
last walked in our parish
Where do you who belonged to these fields
whose wheat is again turning ripe

Flower Of Solitude

We lived we conversed we resisted
we crossed paths on the street under the trees
we perhaps made a little stir
we traced timid gestures in the air

Hand To The Plow

Happy the man who manages sadness wisely
and learns to divide it among the days
Though months and years pass it will never leave him

My Way Of Saying Farewell

There's ocean there's woman
and both of them reach me in amiable bays
opening up for example in the churchyard of sunday afternoons
I hear them call but not just any old way

Oh houses houses houses

Oh houses houses houses
houses are born and live and die
While alive they stand out from each other
they stand out namely by their smell

On The Hill Of This Moment

A hint of absinthe fills the air when the beetles
emerging from the rotten bark of the old oaks
begin their flight in the month of june
Picking hazelnuts we walk through the garden

The Game Of Quoits

In this square my childhood resurrects
here my life suddenly has a new wellspring
and surges with the force it had when it started
The time hasn't passed only my consciousness

Three or four children

More or less here not long ago there were some children
three or four children more or less right there
There must have been children there's so much sun

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