Rio

When the country comes
by mountains and valleys overturned into the sky,

When the severe Atlantic
gently snuggles up to the green hills of Compinas
at the very peak
of an infinite Brazilian summer,

When distant relatives-islands
in sails-clouds are floating down to the South,

When magic morning looks
as a strained expectation of the dream
that has not come true,

When there is a frail peace in your soul,
as if making flight in a dream,

When a shadow,
sharp and fat,
from your life that has gone,
is developed as a spilt Indian ink on a paper,

When among million people and dialects,
among prostitutes-men
and prostitutes-women
any event looks socially predetermined,
and any person has already visited your life
and is consequently recognizable,

When the Christ has spread the hands out,
making the sign of the South Cross
over the ships purposefully going to ports,
and carefree yachts,
and boats with brown fishermen,

When the planes
fly under the birds
falling then over Down-Town
like as butterflies into a net,

When the mathematician from Harvard
selflessly recites Rudyard Kipling:
" I'd like to rolling to Rio, I'd like before I become old ",
at a seminar on the theory of catastrophes,

When the life and death are
just as two girls with arms round each other
waiting for a client in a gate on a dark lane of Rio,

When the soul has lost faith in the God and fairness
and believed in the multiplication table,

When a reckless mulatto beauty
is plunged into necessity and order,
severe as a soul of the Japanese,
and follows obediently to the schedule of everyday life,

When you understand
being on a threshold of the bewitching non-existence
that you have lived another's unintelligible life,
rather than yours own,
and now even the Lord can change nothing.