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Poetry

On Christmas Eve
while the bells were ringing,
I saw Christ walking
on a street in São Paulo.
He was already a man when he was born,
swaddled in his manger
with solitude and death.
The white cold wind
whispered a secret:
—Life was brief
for men and gods,
a sigh of Christ
breathed in the darkness.
Carrying the cross,
Jesus went alone
all the way to Calvary.
No one followed him.
He was a luminous rumor
on a festive evening.
Jesus shivered.
The night was cold.
The open mouth of the subway,
submerged in fog,
swallowed his footsteps.

 

Translated from the Portuguese by Jessica Goudeau


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