Poem by Maria do Sameiro Barroso
I walk among pure slopes, wild flowers.
opening books of stone,
reading the candles of fire,
diving into the streams of death.
Then, I play the harps of shadow,
I hear the sounds of the dead
gathering seeds, weeds, and clovers.
and I walk on the light,
my face anointed by waters,
savoring the word that convokes
the secrets of the night,
the mysteries of spring, the blooming
my lungs immersed in the superb scent
of the wisteria.