A true story from one of Rios favelas where I lived for three years.

In the favela

So the young ones died
in the steep alleys of the favela,
their white drugs, neatly folded in envelops,
still in their blood soiled pockets
as the military police arrived
to claim their trophies at dawn
just before the carnival rolled rich carts
before filled grandstands of money and more drugs.

So the young ones died
in the steep alleys
overlooking white Copacabana.
No one will remember their names
nor the petty crimes they died for.
Life is cheap in these villages
where subversive pagode
roll down narrow alleys
and bars of cheap booze
congregate the lost smiles
of a lost generation.

Eu vou apertar
mas Eu no vou acender agora.

Poetry by Bob
Read 577 times
Written on 2006-09-24 at 22:13

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