A hasty sketch of a life gone by...
A window pane of longing
is all it takes
to revisit the slanting slopes
of Rio de Janeiro,
the favellas where samba
is like the milk and honey
all dreams are made of.
Carnival is just around the corner
and booze is cheap in bars
where the view takes your breath away
and the night blows your desire
down hot alleys
where smiles comes easy
and live weapons,
bursting into death.
Dark shadow obliteration
follows the bitter cashasa
all the way down a descending pandeiro
to an escola preparing
for the final walk down the giant aisle
where men and women participate
in ancient moves.
Silvery moon metals its shine
over a vast forest hidden
and an ocean of salty weather
where tanto assim
just follows the rhythm
onwards to the coming of the sun.
Kites in the hands of young boys
greets the coming of new songs
and the competition carries on,
the radio blasts in all earnest,
the brown beauty blossoms in bars
where strangers dance.
Never meant to leave this colour,
this state of the art
where all is allowed by skin
and all else is accepted
on similar basis.
Poetry by Bob
Read 538 times
Written on 2008-12-25 at 04:03
Tags Rio Brazil Favella
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Rio
A window pane of longing
is all it takes
to revisit the slanting slopes
of Rio de Janeiro,
the favellas where samba
is like the milk and honey
all dreams are made of.
Carnival is just around the corner
and booze is cheap in bars
where the view takes your breath away
and the night blows your desire
down hot alleys
where smiles comes easy
and live weapons,
bursting into death.
Dark shadow obliteration
follows the bitter cashasa
all the way down a descending pandeiro
to an escola preparing
for the final walk down the giant aisle
where men and women participate
in ancient moves.
Silvery moon metals its shine
over a vast forest hidden
and an ocean of salty weather
where tanto assim
just follows the rhythm
onwards to the coming of the sun.
Kites in the hands of young boys
greets the coming of new songs
and the competition carries on,
the radio blasts in all earnest,
the brown beauty blossoms in bars
where strangers dance.
Never meant to leave this colour,
this state of the art
where all is allowed by skin
and all else is accepted
on similar basis.
Poetry by Bob
Read 538 times
Written on 2008-12-25 at 04:03
Tags Rio Brazil Favella
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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Peter J. Kautsky |
| Texts |
 by Bob Latest textsI seldom walkthere’s a rumor there will be no full stop so many regrets who am I |
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