
  December 13, 1987
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  The light flickered, withered and died.
  The candle warmth, cooled and froze.
  And I stood there, ready, and wrote.

  What else was there to do?

  A few lines stood up, wilted,
  couldn't stand the weight
  of their lousy rhyme,
  and were shot...
  right out of the pen
  into a white piece of paper
  which allows you to read
  mesmerized, maybe
  even think
  that I meant something...
  which mattered...
  and you cared...
  ahh, but I know you,
  your glutonous and gifted will,
  that makes you wonder,
  what am I
  Who am I
  ...
  I know.
  A mirror of my image,
  or perhaps another,
  image in my own mirror.
  whatever difference...except,
  that I am not afraid to look
  and see...
  You...
  As you stand there naked,
  with soul against your wall,
  you mean nothing to me,
  but,
  I must write
  for you,
  and about you.

  The light flickered, withered and the pen died.

  And I realized that I was here
  with a bullet near my poor head
  waiting for a blessing, a tear
  before it hit me, n' I awoke, dead.

  I woke up from another dream
  realizing the role of a poet
  who wished not to escape,
  and lead a new life
  somewhat afraid.
  I've always wanted to die.
  And have done so in my dreams.
  Ohh, but that fear
  of what... monsters of the deep,
  no, simple ignorances of the mind.
  Devils from a loud hellish place,
  no, illusions please unwind.
  Damned allusions, fires from within,
  yes, maybe a few clouds yet live
  waiting, waiting...

  But I sat there, I wrote a dream
  I think of times when I was lean
  of inside tremors
  but I had you for hope and fervour
  the eternal love kept me, mon amour.

  At that time my pen kept me alive
  when all else failed, and thrived
  into worlds beyond appearances
  forever into many distances.

  As I love you
  and always will
  you will hear all this
  humbly
  and I accepted my penance
  for perjury,
  of the spirit...
  ahhh, but what peace I had.

  I will stand trial by the pen
  of unforgiving souls of men
  who refuse to acknowledge my life
  and defy the love of my only wife.

  To her, whenever, if ever,
  I dedicate this soul
  Written by a simple pen
  and piece of paper
  while the candle warmth
  flickered a little
  then went out,
  and the air cooled
  and then, slowly, froze,
  me to sleep,
  ...
  but what sleep.

                            - Pedro Sena
