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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


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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