He gave me a kiss on the mouth and told me
Life is hollow like the hood
Of a headless baby
And I laughed a lot
He said: like the cap of drunk fox
And I said: enough of your talk
Of bottomless puddle
I know that the world
Is a flow with no ground
And it's only in the hollow of your chest
That runs a river
But he agreed that life is good
Despite it being just the crown:
The face is the emptiness
And he laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and was laughing
Said: Enough philosophy
To me it would be enough if the mayor did something about it
In the city of Bahia
This would affect all the people on earth
And we would see the birth of a warm peace
The sons of the cold war
It would be an anti-accident
Like a rhyme
Deactivating the plotting of that prophecy
That Vicente told me about
According to astronomy
That in November of the year that is beginning
Seven stars will align in Scorpion
Like it did on the day of the bomb of Hiroshima
And he looked at me
From above and said, to me
Delfim, Margaret Thatcher, Menahem Begin
Politics is the pits
And the critics should stay away from poetry
The Time Magazine wants to say that the Rolling Stones
Don't fit in the world of Time Magazine anymore
But I say (He said)
That what doesn't fit anymore is the Time Magazine
In the world of the Rolling Stones Forever Rockin' And Rolling
Because to forge contempt for the living
Is to promote reactive desires
Apaches, punks, existentialists, hippies, beatniks
Of all times, unite
I said yes, but yes, but not even that
Just a few saints, if that many, on their own
And alone
Buthe said to me: You are sad
Because your lady is abandoning you
And you don't resist, when she shows up
She comes and installs her chaotic cosmetic
You start to look with your gothic eye
Of a legitimate christian
But I am black, my negro
I know that it doesn't deny and even activates
The old mulatto rhythm
And the lion roars
The fact is that there is an isthmus
Between my God
And your Gods
I'm from the klan of Djavan
You are a fan of Donato
And we don't care about the christian trio
Od Dylan Zimmerman
He would even say more
But the song has to end
And I answered:
The God that you feel is the God of the saints
The iridescent surface of the hollow ball
My gods are baby heads with no hoods
It was a moment of no fear and no desires
He gave me a kiss on the mouth
And I corresponded to that kiss