
By Bruno Monnerat Alves
Callings
I work.
I correct phrases.
I cut words,
impiously.
I caress them.
I struggle with
them, always in search of the �adequate��
I read the text
again, I erase, I re-write�
I abstract myself
from the noise that denounce that there�s a world outside and it pulses!
Suddenly, one of
them stands out. I recognize it�
It�s the call of
the couple of infatuated haws� always together, flying among the trees and
the buildings. I follow them for a year. I see them in the top of the tall
buildings nearby, in the lightning-rods. Sliding in the blue in a
synchronic flight, hunting�
Cast away from
their natural habitat, they try to live among the concrete and the green
area that still exists here in Laranjeiras, my neighbourhood�
The dark part of
their wings, in contrast with the white stripe� their pointed beak, sharp
senses� their scanning look�
I go back to my
craft. It�s necessary.
Suddenly, new
callings fill my heart!
I fantasize that the hawks strut for
me�
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