Cristina Branco & Alma Novaes

April in conjunction with you

The air is filled with remnants of wisteria, 

buffeted by the wind in corruption, 

and I leave them, half-open, with a pebble 

Trampled on the ground, the gates 

for the arrival of spring breezes 

and children's laughter

that are slow to announce themselves,

that extinguish the already dusty flowers.

That the season is made of seeds 

already extinct from our ancestral past 

and the transit of souls makes room 

for something greater than the physical, 

immaterial and revolutionary, 

which will appear in the winter of this year, 

of the ether and mercury, 

of the seismic shocks

We will be pixels in ethereal space, 

according to this futurology, 

some kind of hybrid state

you will pick the roses of St. Thérèse 

that I sowed back there to toast you!

No longer will the sweet aromas 

of bulbs and buds reach your nostrils, 

your senses that perpetuate themselves 

At that distance, that's strychnine 

liquid for me to sip,

Nagasaki Pump, Hiroshima, 

My love, 

in my constancy as a girl, 

in the woman's resolution 

to wait for you, framing the delay 

with a willow tree for company.

The memory of beautiful days 

wait in pause, as in prophecy, 

as the watchman waits for the night, 

in the safety of his hideout, 

for new attacks from the old pet enemies, 

your arrival, on your departure 

and the margin of memory goes on 

and still in wound, rises,

like a lifebuoy in the hostile river, 

harmless in appearance, 

It preserves itself from slisms, 

like the chameleon, 

to protect itself from oblivion, 

from the blessing of history 

that the earth, which hides its 

records and repeats cycles, 

knows them by heart, 

intuits the danger and thinks of renewal!

And souls sense the abyss, 

and from watchtower to selfishness 

the source of the fruitfulness 

of the future is recovered!

It is too late to put locks on the door, 

brakes and brakes on the new age of Aquarius, 

and it is always before the age of leaving, 

and the eternities that do not wait

And the men who don't wake up

And my living astonishment remains,

 awake and feverish,

Always carrying the weight of longing, 

the solemnity of a vile ceremony, 

and to the sound of a trumpet, 

humanity awakens in the dead harvest, 

topples over at the point of the bayonet

And the love I have for you 

speaks to me and screams to me 

that there will only be music of intervention, 

that it will only be spring, again, 

when you return to the origin,

When the rivers of my veins sing, 

when sorrows die in me, 

when new words are invented

To say love, I've always waited for you, 

and only freedom will be screamed, 

When you reverse the course, 

the discourse, all you in tributaries, 

calibrating currents, 

producing bridges, coloring sunsets,

and only then, you in me, 

generous thousand waters, 

in all the streets of my body 

will there be bonfires and fireworks, 

of carnations and roses, 

of Venus and Mars, 

only after you will come, 

renewed, April