I miss you
I’m trying to be strong
But it’s really hard
Not to worry you or anything

I don’t want to be here
Or anywhere
Unless I’m talking to you
I miss you

My little garden
I grow dreams and peace of mind.
Dreams are ripe and fresh.

Poetry
isn’t
always
about
cactus
giggling
under
raindrops
or raging
against
herbivory.
It’s the
art of
being
heard in
babbling
phases.

The devotees chanted and cried mystical hymns as
they offered the Great Heavens, a mortal
A soul too young to mother
A soul too perplexed to fathom. 
Her gaze dampened with tears of duty
The hollow bags under her eyes ****** her sorrow into an etch of black
My revolt denied to cross the walls of my throat. 
My nerves shivered and my world sank beneath my feet
To watch a ritual was enticing but
To clench through horror was different. 
"Oh! Good Heavens" I cried
Let her have the luxury in paradise
she was stripped off here in hell. 
She tried to utter a cry but the crude ember
started to feed on her
He put her hands on her and slowly her holiness was rinsed off by his evil. 
Her fair white pearl like skin boiled under her saree
Her hair that ran like waterfall curled into fiery strips of fume
We could smell the putrid but they smelt fulfilment and the whirl of a complete cycle
Her dead husband was already blackened and reduced into specks of coal
Her flesh melted under her own eyes- 
The men who desired her youth once were struck by the contours of a ghoul. 
Half the grown ups turned away
Now with remorse but with a smug and I-
Too baffled to move, watched the last skin on her drip into nothingness
A month before I had seen her dangling with mischief under the branch of the village tree
A day ago I had seen her willingly putting a smile to become a Sati
A few minutes ago I heared the shriek of burden
Now, I see a mould of coal before me
That was the last I had seen my sister.

Entre socalcos e colinas,
água de frescas minas,
bebendo a luz que cai do céu
Douro coberto por branco véu.

Local sagrado com história milenar,
paisagem de encantar,
escuto pela manhã os passarinhos,
nas videiras a beleza dos seus ninhos.

O vento acaricia as uvas douradas,
Com mãos de belas fadas.
Cada bago é um milagre sagrado,
Douro meu amor bem amado.

Sobreiros e giestas abençoados,
rãs cantam cânticos desafinados.
O sol espreita no horizonte,
beijando fresca fonte.

Ao entardecer uma paz que nos rodeia,
é Douro sem mar, sem areia.
A lua vai chegar sorrateira,
durmo com o Douro à Cabeceira.


Victor Marques