Poem to Air the Conscience with the Mildew-Repellent of Reason
Author: DBara Arruda

— The egocentric saga of the inhuman seasoning in the universal alchemy…

Dearest me…
— take your little bag of regret to vomit your ego onto…
And try not to tear your robes when you confess to the glow of stars that no longer exist.
They are no more…
Now bury your face while truth dances an arrogant choreography
in the symphony of ignoble untruth.

Under the sunlight I sit
And beneath the shadow of my thought
Rests the ground.
How many feet will tread it firmly?
And how many will trample the future of days?

Just a moment…
Silence stretches until it’s broken
By the songs of starving birds
In nests of fear,
In the crowns of mute trees —
But below ground they feast
On decomposed remains of what was once life.

Perhaps…
The air asks me:
— Am I pure?
When it knows it’s polluted with screams,
From men who feed on each other
And punish themselves for the hot breaths on their necks
That ignite libido with the crack of the cilice.
Holy penance…

— No, my friend, I smell the stench of suffering,
Of gunpowder, of pain, of tyrannical violence
That the morning dawn witnessed
And the darkness of night condoned,
While the moon, doing nothing,
Wept tears of omission.

There lies a dream…
And the angel’s wings cast shadows over reality,
Feeding the blind faith that he will one day return.

But what if he doesn’t?
What if he no longer cares?
Who knows if that wall of perverse hypocrisy
Is too tall for him to cross?

There is no empathy anymore,
Nor hands extended to the needy —
Fingers are busy pointing out the flawed,
In his name…

Now the sun hides from me,
When the heat of my thoughts
Surpasses the clouds.
So many questions accuse existence,
And the clouds pour down acid on my ears…

Zuuummm…
The worker interrupts me,
Who polarises the hours in favour of the queen.

Not honey.
What’s on today’s menu is gall,
And the sedative kiss of blowflies’ nectar,
A fluid of pseudo-pleasant news
That implants warble larvae
In your brain.

Now open your eyes…
And see the reflection of your inner self.
Let shame pour out like a terminal haemorrhage
From the core of your retina…
And turn off the light — the bill is high.