segunda-feira, 17 de novembro de 2025

sonnet of the nearing chaos


if trump, the american lunatic, were to receive the nobel peace prize,

and if the world, weary of itself, dared to applaud such a spectacle,

we would have to admit, however reluctantly, that the improbable

has become law, and that reason now survives only in brief sighs;


for i do not say humanity, for that one has long wandered in cries

both ancient and newborn, stumbling through its perpetual chronicle,

but rather the shadow of what we were, fading in ruins symbolical,

where each absurd gesture turns the future into a mask of lies;


look closely, i do not say humanity, i repeat, i speak of astonishment,

that fragile creature breathing in jolts, fearing at any moment

that the ground might open and reveal the bitter laughter of fate;


for if such a prize were granted, it would be wiser to write in astonishment

that a sign has come, and in it chaos, so near, so fervent,

like an ending that begins slowly, though it never hesitates.


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