A Forgotten Christ
On ‘Christ Cleansing the Temple’, Wood by El Greco, c. 1570
We surely must follow Christ, learn from Him,
unquestionable Master of love and tolerance.
Son of God, yet a brother, He bequeathed us
divine words and deeds that survive forever.
The way He loved us, great and pure,
no one has ever equally levelled.
His sacrifice on behalf of humanity,
that of then and of coming times,
unworthy and infidel ones, perhaps,
just by this,
took Him to redeem us from bitter destiny.
But, aside from His Divinity, His Grandeur,
do not forget the passage of Matthew 21-12,
when He entered the temple of His Father.
Then, not by a conversation or dialogue,
“He cast out all them that sold and bought,
overthrew the tables of the moneychangers”.
I love this Christ, human and brother,
who did not conceal His anger,
as if He were one of us.
By now, in our time, to honour our Lord,
we have failed to call up one Saint Fury,
like that of our Saviour.
The World I dare to dream
I dream that there are no borders or barriers
and everyone is coming and going all over.
There are no countries with complicated names,
nor other languages difficult to pronounce.
There are no Latin or Jewish quarters,
consulates, embassies or customs.
We are dealing with John, Joseph and Peter,
having been forgotten the old records
at those big notary books of names like
Tudors, Stuarts, Windsors,
Whites, Browns and Smiths.
Priests, pastors, rabbis and teachers,
together they worship the same God,
the common past of humankind,
always sowing hope in the hereafter.
Restaurants, schools and hospitals,
all of them are open to anyone;
even the parties, weddings and baptisms,
and all other pleasures of the day to day.
Most important, people notice that evil,
surprised and perplexed,
has suddenly moved to other places.
Could Anyone ever understand?
Ploughing the fields and producing wheat, oats, and beans;
rising sheep, cows, and pigs;
raising and spreading children and instilling in them
those dreams we were not able to turn into reality.
Throwing rails, roads, bridges and ports,
cities, skyscrapers, churches and cathedrals,
always leaving fences and borders;
creating worlds only ours,
incapable and fearful of cohabiting the one
that has been given to us in full.
Boasting and toasting in life’s daily feast,
trying to write our history, which has begun
in that sixth day of the divine journey of creation.
Someday, somewhere, this history will be told,
and few will be able to understand, for has been lived
on days filled with passion, hard struggle, and suffering.
History developed from our human nature, not paired
with supreme and unique the greatness of our Creator,
whom, although absent, we learned to venerate,
and, some of us, still to love.
Night
When night comes and sleep does not appear,
I ride through unsuspected worlds,
have memories even from days I did not live,
by sure dreams I did not realize.
The yearning is loose; I have to fill the void,
so that I arrive in full to another day waiting for me,
new challenges, new fights.
The new day will be powerful and pugnacious,
unlike me, one day older and not being able to hide
on the face and soul, the marks of misfortune and sorrow,
unrequited loves, dislikes and mismatches.
I will show that I did not renounce the human inheritance,
and, along with dear fellow ones I lived, loved and suffered,
having watered the road even with sweat and tears.
Always sure that we will reach, at the end of the journey,
the promised land, and, unlike Abraham,
who just had a glimpse, we will take secure possession.
Then, dancing and partying, we will throw to the skies
sound and honest a laughter.
(First published in Young Ravens, issue 11, winter 2019)
Along the Trails of life
All the troubles I went through,
the bumps and collisions I faced,
the occasional, the unintended,
also, those I myself caused
by my own will.
All friendship I made and enjoyed,
that made lighter the burden of life,
all smiles, well remembered good times.
Also, there were those whom once I thought friends,
and, in bitter, crucial and doubtful hour,
who dodged and joined enemies,
unfortunately, always on duty.
Love I gallantly declared,
and have been reciprocated,
passions I am proud of, which lit up my face,
body, soul and my entire being.
Likewise, there were affections
and desires of mine, left unrequited
or unwelcome, perhaps misunderstood.
For those, I leave no grudge or hurt,
susceptible they can be due to how extreme
our human diversity is.
As Tolstoy writes in Anna Karenina, “if there are
as many heads as there are ways of thinking,
there are as many types of love as there are hearts”.
I have been going through and over this labyrinth,
and, today, I reach maturity in body and soul.
I leave behind affections and disaffections,
chants and disenchantments, all watered
by laughter and crying, sweat and tears.
(Published in Fevers of the Mind, 14 July 2024)
Edilson Afonso Ferreira - Mr. Ferreira, 81 years old, is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than Portuguese. Has launched two Poetry Collections, entitled “Lonely Sailor” and “Joie de Vivre”; has 190 poems published in 300 different publications, in selected international Literary Journals. Has, also, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He began writing at the age of 67 after he retired from a bank. He is always updating his works at www.edilsonmeloferreira.com.
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