Truth is a bell jar. It’s fragile glass. And human imbecility is able to forget even the infinite dimension of the heavens that rise and expand beyond glass structures.
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word created glass.
This is the story of truth.
Men and women pray… Their old demagoguery goes up like smoke and makes us numb, rising up like spider webs around our heads. And every single time a gust of wind cracks the circular walls of the bell jar, we speak and speak the words of our unmistakable hurt sorrow, and sell ourselves for a consolation — so that the glass returns to be as it was before.
We insist on fixing that vulgar chastity belt when we actually should break it.
This text, for example, is useless. It won’t raise awareness, it won’t turn anyone into a more sensible being. At most, it will poetize (something). And what can such a thing do?
Yes, I have heard from the mouth of a starving man that poetry saves lives … But so what?
If and when we recite poems, and the vapor of our heretical verb rises to the top, to the highest high… Is there still an inexhaustible thirst for altitude? And if, at the top of the top, poems become cobwebs and cobwebs become glass?
High tides that we never see, and don’t even know if exist, but tirelessly try to preserve and repair day after day…
Is there still a heart?
Vinícius S. Pessoa
Translation — Lira