Ubirajara left the village,
the desire he felt for Yací
was slaying him:
hammered in the sky two butterfly kites.
The forest was leaving his life through the river.
The river skims over the surface, the river is not water,
the river is a serpent, it is the sea,
reflecting that which it touches,
changing color, the river is not. It is all it touches.
It is born with life: I want to live.
The bed is made of images: triangles and squares.
And my story with you is over,
I shake the wings that still envelope our embraces
to know how your caresses feel when the jaguar nears.
The passion persists dragging signals of lust
an unhealthy lust multiplied by cold thoughts.
The consumed voice in the penumbra,
insentient the silent contact of your skin.
Flying, head held high, in the vastness of the forest.
Between the trees, in the water's course from the marshes
to the still planes
the roar of the "Pororoca" could be heard,
meeting between the river and the sea.
The sea is a great lake, an immense lake.
Márcia Theóphilo, 1982
English version by Hania Kochansky, 2000