Mercy

Lost in the wind, 
on a hard dust of stars, 
poetry Vixen
that was already "devez". 
Treacherous walked
fantasizing deboches; 
invented by longing, 
but it mocked. 
Then, tired of the time, 
unstable verses, 
well done truths
and without rhyme ... 
Headed. 
Not left nor traces, 
or signs whistle-blowers.
Was in silence, as came.
But not mornings, 
hands,
or looks.
It was point and
is over!

Erika Pók Ribeiro

Tradução aproximada do poema Alício