Laura de Jesus

 Brave New World

The dew is released, 

serene and moist

full of time to be.

I pause the words,

the smoke, the everyday zapping.

In a languor that takes over me 

that I still haven't gotten used to

 (but that is mine)

I let myself be carried away, 

calm and tired, just like life,

 tears of time.

It's the break of dawn 

in the mountains, 

the birds, singing the bucolic, 

the cricket orchestra

the gathering of cattle, 

the murmur of restrained voices 

that falsify the chords for fear 

of unsettling the wind, the smell 

of burnt pine cones 

on the low and old stove

Ti Júlia running to the novena 

and Manel do Pote at the usual time

of watering,

of the stubble late afternoon.

The treetops dating the sky, 

my face leaning against the window 

and outside falls this darkness 

that the villagers, and very well, 

call pitch.

Time is fallow on the earth.

I do not give up this new world, 

not even for the sake of Huxley.