The Poetryzine magazine presents the selected poems by the Portuguese poet Maria Do Sameiro Barroso
Cosmogony
In the beginning, a large empty flower
began to stir.
We were the earth and the sky,
moving in the shade.
In our story, there were birds,
mountains and haze.
Like Spring sprouts, we started
moving across the sun and the rainbows.
In the slime of shells and corals,
I heard your first words,
not knowing how to stop the purple,
the rivers, the sky,
or the yellow flower of the sun violins.
We were born out of a sweet
cosmogony.
We came to each other
out of a rebellious desire,
playing an ancient game,
reviving an enchanting spell
by the quietness of a river,
the shadow of white poplars,
listening to the gorgeous sound
of a well-tuned lyre.
Add me to your poem
Add me to your poem,
join me to your islands,
The sun is still a draft of colors,
my name is a night of brightness.
Add me to your poems,
join me to your islands,
take me from this wasteland.
Sweet dates drive me
from the palm trees of desire.
Green ships drive me
to the golden syrup of exile.
Roses of utopia
I dream of a rose, a red rose of life,
Spring and vitality.
And I lean on my utopia.
But insidious damaged roses
creep into my mind,
still claiming the bright skies
hidden of their yearning,
My brain carried their grief,
their anguish, the despair
of their bodies sacrificed
in shameful shrines.
I would like to bring them
the solace, the balance of wings,
the armours of love,
the gentle tools
of the warriors of peace.
Butterflies keep dying
cruelly.
Yet, my dreams do not perish,
my roses never die.
Butterflies keep flying
in the distance.
Red roses, my dead roses,
are still carrying a torch,
a gleaming light,
among pomegranates,
blueberries and starry skies,
drifting old nightmares away,
keeping my roses of utopia alive.
November
Words create the light, the riddling
flowers, the tangible forms
of materiality.
They are broad and accurate.
Therefore, I define them rigorously.
Words create darkness.
And hence, the night is a drop,
a tear, a lightning bolt,
a crop, an angel:
a bird that forgot to fly,
lost
in the shadows of November.
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