If the rains come
torrential as our lives,
who will listen to us then?
How much was spoiled
by our perishing?
By the digging and cutting,
the burning of dreams
that hid in Amazonia?
And if we go before heaven
choked with our dust
and plead innocence,
will the rain stop?
Will the ashes sink in the ocean?
Will something move in the fog?
A child open its eyes?
A girl that died
remember her soul?
Cities emerge in the darkness?
Another beat
in the cataclysm of God’s heart
goes on
without a sound?