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9 views3 pagesBlack Poem - Augusto Dos Anjos
The poem describes the pain and despair of a man who questions his fate and purpose in life. He feels like a blind, indifferent wanderer in the world, haunted by the passage of time and death, which follows him like a hungry beast. At the climax, he challenges the nature that has tortured him and led him to total degradation.
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0% found this document useful (0 votes)
9 views3 pagesBlack Poem - Augusto Dos Anjos
The poem describes the pain and despair of a man who questions his fate and purpose in life. He feels like a blind, indifferent wanderer in the world, haunted by the passage of time and death, which follows him like a hungry beast. At the climax, he challenges the nature that has tortured him and led him to total degradation.
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We take content rights seriously. If you suspect this is your content, claim it here.
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Black Poem
A Santos Neto
To escape my misfortune, I study.
Deep down you know that I am not fooling myself.
Wherever I go (the whole world notices it)
In my funeral gazes, I carry
The stupid indifference of a blind person
And the indolent air of an idiotic Chinese!
The passage of centuries amazes me.
Where will my shadow run to
On this horse of electricity?!
Path, and I ask myself, in the vertigo:
Who am I? Where am I going? What is my origin?
And it seems like a dream to me the reality.
In vain with the cry of my heart I implore!
Two of my shouts hearing only the echo,
I twist my arms in a mad anguish
And often, at midnight, I laugh
Sinisterly, I see the cold worm
What is there to eat my entire meat!
It is Death — this frisky carnivore —
Snake has a poisoned tongue
That everything you find on the way, eat...
Hungry and attractive woman who, on January 1,
Go out to assassinate the whole world,
And the whole world does not satisfy your hunger!
In this grim analysis of things,
I run. I tear the corpses from the slabs
And I examine its rotten parts...
But suddenly, hearing a loud bang,
In the rot of that hideous wrapping
I recognize my Destiny in astonishment!
I find myself, alone, in a pit.
So my delirium is renewed...
As if, opening all the graves,
Death, in black and yellow garments,
Raise great cleavers against me
And the bayonets of the ancient dragons!
And when I saw that it was coming
I was falling like a falling sun
From decline to decline; and from decline
In decline, like the gluttony of a beast,
I wanted to see what it was, and when I saw what it was,
I saw it was dust, I saw it was litter!
It's your turn, oh! Nature!
I now challenge this greatness,
Before which my eyes are entranced.
I challenge, from this dark pit,
No hysteria caused by torture
All the monsters that your breasts create.
You are not my mother, wicked old woman!
With your cold stepmother's whip
You have accused me twenty-two times...
Because of you, I rotted on the crosses,
In which folds do you raise the children you produce?
During the unfortunate nine months!
Terrible reaper of the dead,
Against the aggression of your contrasts together
The beast that sleeps within me awakens with screams
Wake up, and after shouting the last insult,
Clatter the teeth with dread fury
Like the friction of two irons!
Well then! My time for revenge has come.
You killed my childhood time
From Monday to Sunday,
Tied in the horror of your net,
You gave me fire when I was thirsty...
Stay put, scoundrel, I will take my revenge!
Suddenly another dark vision frightens me!
I am in Rome. It is Good Friday.
The mist invades the dark earthly orb.
In the Vatican, in prostrated groups,
With the long red uniforms, the soldiers
They keep the body of the Divine Master.
Like the stalactites of the cave,
Fall in the silence of the Eternal City
The rainwater in thick wide strands...
Only of Jesus Christ remains
A skeleton; and we, seeing it, we
I feel like embracing your bones!
There is no one on the Ripetta road.
Inside the Church of Saint Peter, quiet,
The funeral lights flicker weakly...
The wind sings songs of death.
Rome trembles! Moreover, in a strong rumor,
The noise of the rattles starts again.
The disaggregation of my idea
It increases. Like the sores of morphea.
Fear, discouragement, and discomfort
The motor circles are paralyzed.
In Eternity, the moaning winds
They are saying that Jesus is dead!
No! Jesus did not die! He lives in the mountains
From Borborema, in the air of my land,
In the molecule and in the atom... Summary
The spirituality of matter
And he is the one who cradles the body of misery
And makes the cloaca a perfume urn.
In the agony of so many nightmares
A raw pain pulls my hair,
I woke up. My life is so empty!
In disconnected and flawed thinking
I bring the confusing cards of a deck
It's a piece of melted wax!
Sleep at home. The sky sleeps. The tree sleeps.
I, only I, with my enormous pain
The eyes bled in the vigil!
And I watch, while horror cuts off my speech,
The sepulchral aspect of the austere room
And the impassibility of the furniture.
My heart, like a crystal, breaks
The thermometer denied my fever,
Turn into ice the blood that burns me,
And I become the sad stork
At the ruins of a house stands
To the collapse of another house!
Upon finishing this meaningful poem
Where I poured out my supreme pain
I have my eyes immersed in tears...
Roll me in the head, the hollow brain.
Perhaps, my God, am I crazy?!
From now on, I will no longer write verses.
