Fogata

The poet carved
On the Berlin wall he spat
About roses free from feast
Recited Drummond de Andrade
And then cried Jobim
He didn't miss anyone
And died so bored
Writing his loves
Drawn on the edges
Of a medicine cabinet
And in its petals his fears

I get lost on the avenue of time
Between the warm afternoon and the heat of the moment
I get lost in dressing rooms, camaraderie, and torment
A poet who unleashes a wandering poem
Disguises himself as a bonfire and travels the world

Lose yourself in any alley
Hide in any citadel
Sing prodán, cry in the moment
Throw the sultan you carry inside

I get lost on the avenue of time
Between the warm afternoon and the heat of the moment
I get lost in dressing rooms, camaraderie, and torment
A poet who unleashes a wandering poem
Disguises himself as a bonfire and travels the world
I get lost on the avenue of time
Between the warm afternoon and the heat of the moment
I get lost in dressing rooms, camaraderie, and torment
A poet who unleashes a wandering poem
Disguises himself as a bonfire and travels the world