Monologue of the Indolent
A laziness licks the soles of my shoes
Followed by the feet that can not resist the force of its saliva.
And if prostrated on the ground of rest
The word in movement finds the garden
The poet walks without a single step.
In the lane, the divine forest
Built with earth and human sand.
The pilgrimage leaves as a convoy of words from the sofa
The eyes join in
The body follows
The multitude of men of all colors
They are part of only one leaf.
The poet wants to speak in drunken language
That the wind of poetry never ceases throwing in its face
The word as a chameleon does not have fixed color.
It hides throughout the world
But at times is not there when we imagine it.
The word is without border.
A present and simultaneously absent body
In great movement.
Jean Narciso Bispo Moura