quinta-feira, 5 de janeiro de 2017

So-called atheism

It seems quite sad to me
to have no faith;
having nothing to give you
a reason for here to be;
nothing to hold on to
that can make you feel safe.

In truth, to say I dare:
all people are believers.
Mankind is powerfully weak,
we crave for certainty
in a world of despair;
so to any kind of control
everyone might quiver.

When poetry becomes prayer
in your darkest time;
the only dream that clings you
to the chance of a real life
when that god had failed you
on a remote day of October...

(Or has your belief
never been strong enough?
Mere repetition of gestures
and ancient words blown
into the void?)

Faceless salvation
whose blood is ink
in eternal transmutation
with its rhythmic shapes.
Made of my own cruelty,
hope and desperation...

The only option
to put back together
the pieces left of me.

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