

Edition #11
Whispers of the Lost Time
Luciana Pontes
Edited by Rosie Peters-McDonald
I write as someone who says goodbye
I write as someone who says goodbye
waving to the next sixty years
I write as someone who forgets
the square, the road, the wind
I draw, for time, a poem,
oh time… move on.
the rest I stumble through the streets
a clock hits my chest
and one day I realize
sixty years have not passed
twenty-four hours have passed
and the astonishment continues
I dreamed of planting branches in the most distant field
living with the crows, with the dust and with the poets
I dreamed of escaping the world as soon as possible
hurling myself far away from the abyss
far, far away,
where there is only a dirt road
I still walk the path,
my boots torn, the sun on my temples
the indeterminate trail of the interior of Bahia
I walk, we walk
I wake up to time, every day
it doesn't tire, but I do,
I tire of experiencing its anguish,
its inexorable routine
oh time... end the torment
I live sixty years in one day
