THIRTY-DAY
José Araujo de Souza
Thirty days later,
it’s like that pain is starting
your walk on my chest.
Thirty days later,
counted from permanent pain,
of daily sadness,
ever bigger.
Thirty days today
and nothing changes in the memory
that I carry with me.
I see her every moment
and I can’t find her anywhere
where I run,
nowhere where I score.
30 days ago
we started our death,
gradual, inevitable
and irreversible.
Only she was withdrawn
battlefield
first.
I,
still waiting …
