Put down your banners, pen-armed soldier!
Decelerate your heart, Easter is no more
The boats are docked and, upon the shore
The cot of the stollen child gently bounces
To the flow of the wave's gentle folder.
Instead, open the gates of your garden; there,
The Rose of the World, silent, sleeps
Upon a festival of spleen and bliss
And I, word-armed poet,
Who used the pen as his riffle
And rose the dead with its blatant kiss
I will dine with you under the tree that weeps
The golden apples of the sun,
The venomous tears of those who hope.
Gabriela de Sousa
