FEAR


José Araujo de Souza
I’m afraid. I fear
that there are no more real means
to rescue, from the deep well,
the historical value of the missing.
Let them become lies,
like the ones that count
around the campfires, in the hinterland,
where they are buried.
Or that statues be made
and commemorative plaques,
that are never seen
for unknowns
of their names,
affiliation or birth certificate.
I’m afraid that nothing,
nothing at all, no effort,
can rescue from the past
the un celebrated victories,
or glorious passages
of the many left
at the mercy of luck,
that for being small
and weaker, death was done.
I’m afraid. I fear
that never again,
be cried.
For the current moment is one of uncertainty.
And there doesn’t seem to be any more
nowhere
for weeping.

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