Doors written

Doors written


My shorts
Of pranks, of hunts
And Adventures, Monteiro Lobato
My philosophy Suassuna
And my blind eyes, Saramago
In my dead butterflies, Baudelaire
In my anguish, Florbela Espanca
A rose without perfume
And in his pain, Augustus of the angels
Kiss without jealousy
A warm kiss in the silence
Deaths, wounds, visions, hells of Dante
My Machadian hands write verses from Quintana
On a sunny afternoon, and hours pass, fly
Nobody sees Virginia Woolf
And Drummond with good face, looking at the sky next to Flag
Silliness, dropping kites in the air, sitting on the sand
In Villa de los Lobos, a Tom plays Vinícius
Eça de Queiroz hoists his hooks with words of tenderness
Using touches of Neruda
I walk down Baker Street but I can not find Conan Doyle.
Neither Jô Soares, and in the gold rush, Allan Poe runs
Rushing with the ravens while Mary Shelley locks her monster in the closet
In the corridor, Crowley sees Levi, and Bram Stoker carries a vampire baby in his arms
Fernando visits the philosophical hall of Plato
While my eyes of Byron are shipwrecked in a rough sea



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