Dois homens velhos

Father and son

Marianetti Castanelli,
a man in his 70s, mustachioed,
sporting a big paunch,
and wearing shorts and
a shirt – with the top three buttons open,
big faced, with a gait as that of a dancing Buddha,
was sitting opposite his house,
–on Rua Cascante Queiroz ,
a rather quiet street, if you ask me,
for a city of million people,
oh, yes, back to Senhor Castanelli again,
…he was in a pensive mood,
together with his childhood
chum, who opens many a store
at 7 am sharp on the busy
Avenida Santa Izabel.


I gather that the tree
that he had planted
and cared for many years,
had yielded to the gusty wind,
on dois de Março,
and he had to witness
the chopping of the main trunk,
of this magnificent tree
on broad daylight with none
to mourn for;
tears rolled down the eyes.
who dare sayeth,
os homens shan’t cry ?


There he was crying like
a baby, at the death of an
ecosystem that he had once built,
cherished and sheltered,
wither away to dust.


Another day has just begun.
All there remains is the stump,
whose once possessed glory
shan’t be known to many a passersby.



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