O haver [English translation]

Remains, above all else, that capacity for affection

That perfect intimacy with silence

Rests that intimate voice asking for forgiveness for everything

- Forgive! They can't be blamed for being born...

Remains that old respect for the night, that speaking softly

That hand that feels before having, that fear

Of getting hurt touching, that strong hand of a man

Full of meekness towards everything that exists.

Remains that immobility, that economy of gestures

That ever-growing inertia before the Infinite

That childish stutter of someone who wants to express the inexpressable

That irreducible denial at unlived poetry.

Remains that communion with the sounds, that sentiment

Of the matter at rest, that anguish of the simultaneity

Of time, that slow, poetic decomposition

In search of just one life, just one death, just one Vinicius.

Remains that heart burnt like a candle

In a cathedral in ruins, that sadness

Before the quotidian; or that sudden happiness

At hearing steps in the night that go missing without a story...

Remains that will to cry before beauty

That cholera in the face of the injustice and the misunderstanding

That immense pity for oneself, that immense

Pity for oneself and one's useless force.

Remains that sentiment of infancy suddenly unraveled

Of small absurdities, that capacity

To laugh at nothing, that ridiculous desire to be useful

And that courage to compromise oneself without necessity.

Remains that distraction, that disposition, that vagueness

Of someone who knows that everything has already been how it's going to be in the come-to-be

And at the same time that will to serve, that

Contemporaneity with the tomorrow of those who didn't have yesterday nor today.

Remains that incoercible ability to dream

To transfigure reality, within that incapacity

To accept it as it is, and that vision

Broad from the events, and that impressive

And unnecessary prescience, and that prior memory

Of nonexistent worlds, and that static heroism

And that small undecipherable light

To which poets sometimes give the name hope

Remains that desire to feel the like everyone

To reflect on looks without curiosity and without memory

Remains that intrinsic poverty, that pride

Of not wanting to be a prince if not of one's own kingdom

Remains that quotidian dialogue with death, that curiosity

For the moment to come, when, in a hurry

She will half-open a door like an old lover

But will retreat in veils upon seeing me beside the beloved.

Remains that constant struggle to walk inside the labyrinth

That eternal getting up after every fall

That search for equilibrium at the razor's edge

That terrible courage before the great fear, and that childish fear

Of having small courages.